


Cold Hands, Warm Heart.

by Imagine_Darksiders



Category: Darksiders (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Biblical References, Coming to terms with losing loved ones, Death learns to be kind, Eventual Smut, F/M, Five Stages of Grief, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Grief, Human learns to be brave, Humans are cute, Hurt/Comfort, Loss, Oral Sex, Overprotective Characters, Pining, Slow Burn, The Last Sermon, horseman of the apocalypse, human reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-18
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2019-07-14 03:00:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 77,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16031591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imagine_Darksiders/pseuds/Imagine_Darksiders
Summary: Sometimes people aren't chosen for a specific reason. Sometimes, you can't chalk things up to destiny or fate or something else equally exciting. Sometimes, you're just a human who gets swept up in a journey that you were never supposed to be involved in, and all because - for one, tiny glimmer of a moment - you did something brave.---You, are Y/n,  a human who's just witnessed the end of the world. Creatures of myth and legend fill the streets of your home and destroy everything you love whilst you can do nothing but run. By some miracle, you make it to a Church where you find a Priest in the middle of giving his Last Sermon to a small group of survivors. You're convinced you'll die in God's holy house....But outside, something approaches. Something dark and powerful. Something that all of humanity has learned to fear. In a state of confusion, you mistake it for a fellow human and try to save it's life.Death returns the favour.---This is a story that chronicles your journey to aid the horseman, Death, on his quest and somehow find a way to restore humanity and find a way back home.





	1. Revelations

 You’d been at work when the first meteor fell, wholly unprepared to survive the end of the world, especially considering your unsuitable choice of footwear. 

It was strange though, that you didn’t feel afraid. Later, you’d realise that was because the shock had helpfully numbed you to any other sensation you might have felt. Looking back on that terrible day, you’d be hard pressed to recall the exact emotion you  _had_  felt when you first saw those strange, unearthly monsters emerge from the steaming meteors and spill out into the street, chasing down any human in sight. But you could say, without a shadow of a doubt, that it was shock that saved your life. For when the rest of your colleagues screamed and hunkered beneath desks or locked themselves in the supply closets, too petrified to move, you somehow found the wit to climb out of a window and shimmy down the fire escape. 

And not a moment too soon. 

A thunderous  **BOOM**! throws you from the last few rungs of the ladder and onto the hard concrete below. 

Coughing and spluttering, you push yourself up onto your elbows and wince at an explosion of pain that blossoms in the back of your head.

“Ah,  _shit_!” You crack your eyes open, blearily squinting up to see your office building engulfed in flames. Every window has been shattered and there’s a gaping hole in the wall, beyond which you can hear a blood-curdling roar and then, seconds later, the haunting cacophony of screams and desperate pleas of your coworkers flow out into the alleyway. For a foolhardy moment, you’re tempted to go back and try to help,  _somehow._

With a sickening pang,however, you realise that the meteor has warped the metal fire escape and torn it away from the wall, rendering the damn thing completely unscalable. 

Gunfire and frightened wailing reach your ears from the next street over and the hair on the back of your neck raises in response. You grit your teeth, frustration and confusion fighting to be felt under the overwhelming blanket of numb bewilderment. 

There’s  _nothing_  you can do, so you do what you can.

You run.  

—-

Again and again, you’re subjected to the monotonous warble of your parents’ answer phone. You must have rung home a dozen times whilst you fled, ducking behind over-turned cars and dustbins and generally having absolutely  _no_  idea where you’re going. 

As you go, you see…. _impossible_  things. Creatures that couldn’t… _shouldn’t_ exist, crawling out of craters in the ground and scrabbling up from the sewers. Fast, canine beasts with elongated limbs and distorted spines scurry around the streets, easily hunting down your fellow humans and pouncing on them like wolves on frightened lambs. Sprinting down another alley, you catch a glimpse of an enormous, brown  _thing_  heaving a bus high above its head before it lets out a deafening roar. 

With surprisingly little effort, you wrench your head away from the gruesome sight and just keep running, aimless and defenceless. Originally, you’d intended to run all the way home, distance be damned. But it doesn’t take long before you realise that your only chance is to run in the quietest direction,  _away_  from the horrified screams. Though it’s hard to judge, at times because every corner of the city sings its requiem. 

At long last, you stumble, exhausted and gasping, out into an vast, city square. You stand at the edge of the alley, your eyes darting too and fro in search of movement. But the hundreds of fires billowing over the cityscape have begun to choke the air with smoke. When nothing immediately looms out of the murk to attack, you take a few tentative steps out into the open, pause, then dumbly, warily, you venture even further, trying not to cough on the thick, fire-smoke that stings your eyes and clogs your throat. 

All of a sudden, about halfway across the square, you stop dead in your tracks, frozen by the sound of a deafening, strident roar. Slowly,  _painfully_  slowly, you inch your head towards the noise, eyes wide and stinging, but you’re too afraid to blink. 

Through the smog, you see  _it_  and your blood runs cold, like somebody poured ice water in your veins. 

There, to your right, standing over the bodies of an old man and a little, brown and white dog, is a  _monstrous_ , humanoid creature. It must easily tower over ten feet tall, skin an ashen grey and eyes of blazing hellfire. Clutched in its meaty claws is a blood-covered battle axe that’s almost twice as tall as its wielder. The gruesome thing is staring at you and what you assume is a grin pulls its black lips apart, revealing a jaw filled with yellowing fangs. It roars, vile spittle flying from the back of it’s throat and then, it charges. 

Like a bullet, the man-creature leaps over abandoned cars, piles of rubble and broken benches in a mad dash straight at  _you_. 

Terror, the sheer and unwelcome kind, finally begins to seep through the haze of shock. It seizes your heart and roots your feet to the ground. You stand there like a deer in headlights as the…the whatever the hell  _that_  is closes the distance between you. 

All at once, a voice behind you cuts through the square and right through your dazzled stupor, snapping you back to reality.

“HERE! OVER  _HERE_! THIS WAY!” 

Throwing your head over your shoulder, you squint through the gloom in search of the new voice, aware of the pounding footsteps that only  _just_  drown out your hammering heart. Seconds later, you catch sight of a figure, standing out as a grey blur, darker than the smoke in the square. It’s waving at you. 

In an instant, your legs feel as though they’ve been released from quicksand and you’re off, sprinting like a bat out of Hell towards the stranger. At your back, the beast bellows out it’s defiance, though you pay it no mind because at the same moment, there’s the sound of a bell tolling. It echoes through the city and sends a flock of birds squawking into the sky over head .

‘ _The church_!’ you realise, pushing yourself to run ever faster as the overwhelming prospect of safety gives you a renewed sense of hope. Even with  _your_  shoes, it quickly becomes apparent that you have speed on your side, although you wouldn’t boast to be any more athletic than the next person. The creature is clearly weighed down by heavy metal armour and that colossal axe, so you soon manage to gain some headway. 

Wheezing like a demon, you slam full force into the graveyard gate, grabbing the top and heaving yourself over, not bothering to try and undo the latch. You tumble painfully onto the grass, pushing yourself to your feet when something silver glints in the murky light, catching your eye. Your head whips to the side and you see a man, a very  _dead_  man with his hand wrapped tightly around the barrel of a handgun, propped up against an old tombstone. In a split second decision, with the hot breath of a literal monster lighting a fire on the back of your neck, you throw yourself on top of the weapon just as it reaches the gate. It takes a hold of the top bar and wrenches it straight off the wall, tossing it to the side as though it were no heavier than a paper aeroplane. Glaring down at your back with that sinister smile, the beast lets out an ugly chortle and tromps forward, raising its axe high into the air. 

On the ground, you release the cylinder, sweat pouring down your forehead and seeping out of your palms, making the whole gun slip and slide around in your quivering grasp. There are five rounds left. Your eyes meet the dead stare of the man on the ground and you feel a soft sigh leave your chest. The footsteps behind you stop, your eyes harden and you suddenly feel a glimmer of courage spark up in your chest…..Though it may just be thanks to the gun. 

Whatever the beast is, it  _says_  something. Nothing you understand, but it’s definitely a language of some sort and you’re struck, for a moment, that this thing is  _intelligent_. Or at least, intelligent enough to have its own dialect. 

But the next thing you know, the words are replaced with a guttural growl. So, you do the only thing you can think of, hardly even daring to think of what’ll happen if it doesn’t work - if you  _miss_.

Just as the beast’s axe reaches its apex, you roll over onto your back and aim the handgun right between it’s piggy little eyes. You just have time to see surprise flicker across it’s face before you squeeze your index finger down on the trigger and- 

_**BANG!** _

The monster stops dead, eyes roving up to try and see the new hole it’s sporting in the middle its forehead. With a clang, it drops the axe in the dirt behind it and collapses to it’s knees, jaw dropped open and tongue lolling out between blackened lips. You merely watch, gasping for breath as it finally slumps forward, falling into a heap right on top of your legs. 

Screaming, you scramble and kick at it, desperate to dislodge yourself. Another screech erupts from your mouth when a hand grabs you beneath the armpits and hoists you to your feet. You try to snatch yourself free but stop upon seeing an older man with wild yet kindly eyes, dressed in long, dark brown robes. 

“Come, quickly!” he urges, staggering with you towards the heavy wooden doors of his church. 

He all but tosses you over the threshold before slamming it shut with a resounding thud then bending to struggle with a thick, plank of wood. Still in a daze and stinking of rancid blood, you fumblingly stuff the pistol into the side of your trousers and stoop down, picking up one end of the plank. The robed man nods his thanks as you both lift it onto a pair of hooks that keep it secured to the church doors, serving as a crude but necessary barricade. You highly doubt that it’ll stop any of those monsters outside, but as of now, it’s a damn sight better than nothing. 

Panting, you rest your forehead on the door and try not to think about how close that had been. 

“Are you alright, my child?” 

The sound of a friendly voice is a blessed relief. Nodding shakily, you push yourself off the door and throw the man a grateful smile. “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks, father.” Feeling the cold metal against your hip, you grimace and gesture to the gun tucked into your trousers. “Ah, sorry about the pistol, by the way.” 

The man - a priest - waves his hand dismissively and places it on your shoulder, returning your grim smile. “I should think, given the circumstances, that our Heavenly father will understand.” 

With a detached chuckle, you brush the sweat off your forehead and turn fully to face the church. 

There are at least another dozen people in there with you. Men, women and children, all tired, frightened and some covered in blood, from head to toe. Their eyes move to watch you but they seem unfocused, as if they’re looking through you, not at you. You know exactly how they feel. 

“Father-” Out of the corner of your eye, you spot a woman clutching two young boys close to her chest, head bowed and humming a soft but trembling tune. Clearing your throat and lowering your voice to address the priest, you urgently whisper, “ _Pardon my french, but what the **Hell**  is going on?_” 

He stares at you for a while, unblinking. Then all at once, he laughs bitterly, entirely without humour and spreads his arms wide as he backs up the aisle towards the pulpit. All eyes are trained on him, some hopeful, as though a man of God would be enough to stop the beasts outside. But most, yourself included, are wary, afraid that he knows something that  _you_  don’t. Something that you’ve considered, but daren’t voice aloud, lest it be true and that truth drive you all mad with fear. 

There’s a defeated dullness in his eyes when he looks out over the people and shakes his head, picking up the black, leather bound bible and flipping through the pages, searching. “What on earth do you  _think_  is happening?” The question, though rhetorical, pries several hopeless sobs from the congregation, whilst your breath catches in your throat and you share a look with a sharply-dressed businessman who’s clasping his briefcase like it’s his lifeline.

“Let us reflect,” the priest calls out abruptly, disturbing the horrified murmuring, “upon Revelations, six. Verse seven.” 

One of the men throws himself forwards and heaves onto the stone whereas a woman, his wife, you think, leaps from the pew and screeches at the priest, “You can’t be serious!? We need to call the fucking  _police_ , not sit here, reading bible verses and waiting to die!”

Despite her hysteria, you hasten to agree. “She’s right!” you speak up from the door, flinching when every head swivels in your direction. “We…we have to…I don’t know! Barricade the windows! Find weapons and  _defend_  ourselves!”

To your dismay, the priest simply peers down at you warmly but he doesn’t offer a response.

Slumping against the door, you put your hand to your head, shaking it in disbelief and muttering aloud, “I have to find mum, I  _have_  to find my mum,” simply because you can’t seem to think of anything else to say. The situation is like something out of a nightmare and in fact, you’re hoping that at any minute, you’ll wake up in bed. 

As he studies your face, his brow furrows sadly and he clenches the holy book in his shaking hands, pressing it into his chest almost reverently. Inhaling softly, he holds your gaze and begins, “Before the eyes of God…..we have been judged… And we have been found  _guilty_ …” 

Something in his eyes keeps your focus and you find yourself unable to look away. 

“Death awaits us all,” he continues, opening the book and tilting it towards the congregation, “just as Revelations claimed it would.”

At that moment, another meteor screams overhead and lands nearby, shaking the church’s foundations and causing decades of dust to cascade down on your heads. All of the children and a painfully young baby start to cry in earnest now and everyone screams when several loud roars bray in the distance like hunting hounds, followed by the banshee screech of a creature flying past the stain-glass window. 

“And I heard the word - in a voice like thunder - say; “Come and see,” and I saw, and behold a pale horse. And his name that sat on him, was Death!” 

The priest looks up from the pages and his eyes light on the wooden door, just above your head. “…and Hell followed with him….”

More crashes and booms rock the church before it all falls silent again, save for the distant rattling of chains and the steady approach of several hundred footsteps.

“Oh christ!” the businessman shrieks, leaping to his feet, “They’re coming! We’re all gonna die in here!” 

The boys clinging to their mother scream and bury their heads in her coat. 

Since you’re leant up against the door, you can hear them most clearly. The same grunting, snorting beasts as the one that attacked you. There’s no denying the pitch of those growls, a sound you’d take to your - apparently very early - grave. To your utmost horror, it sounds as though there are a hundred of the things. 

“Nobody i-is going to die!” you stammer, cringing at how unsure you sound, but you just can’t bear to hear the panicked cries of the kids. Clumsily, you pull out the pistol and show it to the others. “They…they can be killed! I  _killed_  one! We still have a chance!”

For a moment, it would seem that your words meant to inspire hope would serve that effect because there are several murmurs and nods of agreement. Until the same man as before suddenly shoots to his feet, fingers clasped into his hair and the briefcase is discarded, scattering papers to and fro. “You have ONE gun!” he shrieks, prompting an older woman to grab his sleeve and try to shush him. He simply yanks his arm free, breathing hard. “They’re all over the city! We can’t - They’re gonna….Oh God.”

As if in direct defiance of his final exclamation, a low, rumbling growl creeps beneath the doors and reaches your ears. Stuffing a hand over your mouth, you scrabble to your feet and whip around to face the entrance. 

The whole church freezes, not a soul dare move for fear of being heard, so they hold their breath. Everyone but the priest, who glares ferociously at the door. 

You spare a glance at the others before swallowing thickly and staring back at the door. If you strain your ears, you can just make out a quiet snuffling sound, as of something big sniffing at the air. 

Cold sweat trickles down the back of your neck and your lungs burn with the desperate need for oxygen but you’re too afraid to inhale. 

For what honestly feels like an eternity, nothing else happens. 

But then, like a death knell chiming to mark your doom, the baby in its mother’s arms whimpers softly, almost imperceptibly, but it may as well have screamed. 

Without a second of warning the creature on the other side of the door lets out a victorious, bellowing battle cry and beyond it, you hear an answering cacophony of roars, howls and guttural barks. 

“And lo!” the priest cries in kind, having somehow found the courage to continue his sermon despite the horrendous noise from outside, “there was a great earthquake! And the sun became black!”

The door abruptly bows inwards when something heavy crashes into it, forcing you a few steps backwards on wobbly legs, stumbling on a loose slab and tripping over onto your backside. Behind you, the people scream and sob and pray, but the priest’s voice cuts above them all, strong resolute and defiant. 

“And the great day of his wrath has come!” 

You heart has never beat so hard, as though it wants to break out of your ribcage and make a desperate flee for safety and leave your body behind. “This isn’t happening,” you try to convince yourself, regardless of the wood splintering into your face with each thunderous pummel of the door, “this is not happening!” The hinges begin to come loose from the stone and you see beyond the gap in the doors, a hideous, snarling face, dripping wet with saliva and blood. 

And in spite of your fear, in spite of every modicum of logic screaming that there’s not a thing you can do, that you should just give up and roll over, in spite of this, you place your hands on the ground and with a grunt, push yourself up onto your feet again. Because you hate the idea of dying, but you hate the idea of dying on your belly even more. 

At your back, the priest raises his voice to the heavens, issuing his last verse at the same time as you choke on a hopeless wail. 

“AND  _WHO_  SHALL BE ABLE TO STAND!?”

“ **STOOOOP**!!!” you scream with all your might, taking a brave step towards the door and holding out a hand, fingers splayed wide as though  _that_  might protect the people in the church. 

And to your utter incredulity, the banging  _does_  stop. 

Silence settles over the church for all of three seconds before another growl emanates from behind the door, only this one carries the distinct tone of someone who’s more confused than bloodthirsty. You glance back at the priest and the other people, each looking just as befuddled as the beast outside sounded. 

Suddenly, there’s a different noise, one that draws your attention back to the door. It sounds like metal scraping against metal, like a sword being drawn or a knife being sharpened. Cautiously, you peer at the door, leaping back seconds later as if you’d been stung when a sharp, blood-dripping blade slices clean through the thick wood, accompanied by a grating howl of pain. The blade pulls free seconds later and leaves a rectangular break in the door, large enough to see through. Something big thumps against the door and emits a watery gurgle before it falls silent. 

Petrified as you are, you can only stand there, staring, mouth agape at the place where the blade had pierced, wind whistling eerily through the gap and echoing down the church aisle. It isn’t until you feel someone brush past you that you blink and snap your mouth shut, watching the priest approach the door with his bible still in hand. Without word or ceremony, he spares you a faltering glance, then he bends to put his face up to the hole and peers out.

Only the baby kicking up a fuss utters any noise while the priest continues to stare outside. In an instant, he lets out a strangled gasp and pulls away, backing up further into the church. 

“What?” you hiss, snapping your gaze between him and the door, “ _What_?!” 

Dark eyes meet yours, dread evident in the way they begin to droop. Taking a quiet breath, the priest places his hands on the bible and hugs it to himself, bowing his head and murmuring softly, “May God have mercy on our souls.”

The not-knowing is killing you. You have the untamable urge to see what he’d seen, so you fling yourself in front of the hole in the hopes that maybe you’ll see something that provides you with an answer as to why this is happening. What you see instead, surprises you.

It’s difficult to make out through the fog, but you clearly see the shape of a man. A very  _tall_  man, standing with his back to you in front of a veritable swarm of those hideous brutes. As you watch, he turns to look over his shoulder, ebony hair swaying gently in the hot breeze and you gasp aloud when your eyes meet two pinpricks of blazing orange, although you chalk it up to his eyes simply catching the reflection of a nearby car that’s  _on_  fire. He - whoever  _he_  is - holds your gaze for a few seconds and then turns back to the army of chomping, snarling monsters. You squint in an attempt to make out what he’s holding in each hand but another blanket of smog rolls across the square and he becomes even more obscured.

“There’s someone out there,” you croak. 

“What?” a man asks from the back, “What’s going on!?”

You aren’t quite sure why you did what you did next. “There! There’s someone - HEY! HEEEY!” you suddenly shout, smacking your hand on the door urgently. “Hey! OVER HERE, HURRY! Get inside!” 

“The hell are you doing!?”

“Get away from that door!”

A pair of gentle but firm hands grip your shoulders and pulls you backwards. Teary eyed, you stare imploringly up at the priest. “There’s a guy out there,” you explain, glancing at the people cowering in the pews, “We can’t just leave him! He’ll  _die_!”

The mother with the boys snaps her head up to glare at you. “If you open those doors, we  _all_  die.” 

Biting your lip, you finger the gun in your waistband, pinching your brow and giving the priest a determined, if not unsteady frown. “Father…I have a gun. There’s a lot of them, yes. But maybe I can…I can hold them off while he gets over here-” 

“That is  _not_  a person, my dear,” he murmurs, squeezing your shoulders. 

“What?” You quirk an eyebrow at him, confused. “What are you  _talking_  about? He just killed one of them! That  _must_  mean he’s human! They wouldn’t kill one of their own!”

“How would  _you_  know!?” the businessman accuses from his hiding spot behind the furthest pew. 

You try to retort, but your tongue feels dry and heavy, weighed down by the bitter taste of uncertainty and fear. Sensing your indecision, the priest lets go of your shoulders and fixes you with a stern expression. “I am a man of God,” he states resolutely, “and I cannot allow the evil out there to taint the inside of these walls.” Then, he softly adds to you, in a whisper, “Listen, I’m just as astounded as you, believe me. However, now is not the time to stop thinking rationally.” He places his hand on your shoulder again, tilting his head to keep your focus locked on him when your eyes start to wander back to the entrance. “The only thing that awaits you out there, is  _death_.” 

“Look at the  _door_ , father,” you whisper, “death’s probably waiting for us in  _here_ too.” 

A river of tears streams down your face, cutting through the dirt and sweat whilst you put your hand over his and entwine your fingers with his. “I…I don’t want to die  _trapped_ ,” you breathe, “Let me out. Shut the door behind me.  _Bar_  it - I don’t care - just…” Stopping to catch your breath, you step away from the priest. “Just don’t make me die in here. I have to  _help_ , I have to - to do… _some_ thing! Maybe I can lead them away from here.” 

Your outcry bounces around in the church as people stare. The priest studies your face carefully, searching you for - what? 

Courage? 

God’s favour? 

Luck?

He’d find you tragically devoid of all those things.

Though whatever he  _does_  find seems to sway his decision. Lips pulling into a tight grimace, he lets his eyes slip shut. When they open again, he looks about twenty years older than before. “Once you leave, the door will not open again.” Even  _he_  doesn’t look sure of his own conviction. 

“I-” you pause, thinking hard. Eventually, you take a deep breath and squeeze your eyes shut before exhaling forcefully. “I know.” 

Two of the men in the church grab the plank of wood and lift it from the hooks, then they each grab one of the round, metal handles on the door, bracing themselves to pull it open. You allowed the priest - Father Michael, he told you - to bless you before you left. He finishes uttering a quick prayer and steps back, away from you and the door. 

“Fly fast,” he tells you. 

With a last look back at the faces of the strangers in the church, you pull the pistol from your trouser waistband, check the chambers and nod to the priest, mouthing ‘thank you,’ as the doors swing open with a loud creak. 

Immediately, you’re hit with the coppery stench of blood and painful sting of smoke in your eyes and throat. Blinking back tears, you venture out into the graveyard, screaming a little when the doors slam shut abruptly behind you. 

Outside is chaos.

You’ve never seen a war zone before - at least, not outside of a cinema - but you imagine this must be what they looked like. 

On the horizon, you gape as a skyscraper comes crashing down to the ground, more and more meteors fall from the sky and set ablaze everything in their wake. You make a mad dash for the low wall that surrounds the graveyard and dive behind it before you’re spotted. Poking your head over the wall, you rove your eyes over the ruined square and your heart plummets into your stomach.

There are gigantic, bat-like creatures zooming through the sky on inverted wings, monumentally tall, shadowy things that tower over the distant buildings, their heads disappearing into the smoke up above but their long, spindly bodies moving slowly like great whales through the murky darkness. Your gaze drops to the battlefield again, searching, either for an gap in the fighting, through which you can make a quick getaway, or for the black-haired stranger. Although judging by the sheer volume of monsters out there, something tells you that he’s as good as dead. “Come on,” you whine, “where are you?” 

A pack of those dog-like creatures hurtle past your hiding your spot, forcing you to duck and flatten yourself against the wall again, though not before you glimpse someone tall throwing himself at a concentrated group of the pale blue humanoids. ‘There!’ you think triumphantly, feeling like you’d accomplished step one in escaping this mess. 

That satisfaction is short-lived, however, thanks to the crushing realisation that you’ll actually need to go out there if you want to help the poor idiot. With a groan, you place your trembling hands on top of the wall and hesitantly pull yourself up, once again. 

The stranger is still there and  _really_  giving it his all! You have to resist the urge to cheer for him. He’s a whirlwind of movement. Leaping, twisting and ducking out of the way of blades and claws with perfect ease and timing. At this distance, you can only make out his silhouette, what with being obscured by smoke and the occasional spray of blood. Though from what you can see, the guy is built like a tank. ‘ _Must be special forces,_ ’ you muse. 

Great swathes of the assailants fall dead at his feet, cut down by twirling, shining…blades?

‘ _Melee, huh_?’ you purse your lips and throw your pistol a dirty look. ‘ _Unconventional, but at least **he**  doesn’t have to reload_.’

As you observe him, a tiny ember of hope flickers to life in your gut, reminding you that hope is still possible despite the bleakest of situations. Although numerous, the monsters don’t seem to be as sturdy as you’d once thought. You’d killed one of them with a single shot to the head and this guy seems to be having very little trouble putting them down. ‘ _Maybe this won’t be such a massacre after al_ l,’ you dare to imagine, ‘ _if he can kill these things, why can’t anyone else? Maybe he can help me get home! We can find my mum! And then-….”_

And then…  _what_? 

Honestly, you haven’t planned that far ahead. Snapping yourself out of your thoughts, you concentrate on how on Earth you’re going to get the stranger’s attention. After a second, from the corner of your eye, you notice something, only because it’s armour is a stark contrast to the sea of pale blue. It’s another monster, a variant of the others, standing at least a whole head and shoulders taller than the rest and garbed in a full suit of leather, burgundy armour. It’s horns are curved in a spiral and behind it drags a a phenomenally big war hammer, rather than use an axe, like its brethren.

The behemoth stalks through the slain bodies purposeful and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that it means to get the drop on your mystery man, who’s currently preoccupied with dodging attacks from about ten other monsters, all at the same time. The huge creature breaks into a slow jog, heaving its hammer into both hands, recognising that its prey’s lapse in concentration will not last forever. Lowering its great, helmeted head, it picks up speed and charges towards him whilst the other simply leap out of its way. Those who  _don’t_ , are simply mowed down. 

‘ _He’s never gonna see that thing in time_!’ you realise, bile rising in your throat. 

Taking a deep breath to steady your nerves, you ignore the fact that it did absolutely nothing to help and vault over the low wall, barrelling towards your inevitable death, screaming the entire way. 

The big beast is nearly on top of the man, sending a spike of panic to rocket up your spine. You open your mouth, raise the pistol and holler, “LOOK OUT, MISTER!” Even though your voice squeaks horribly, you don’t have the forethought to be mortified. 

Everything on the square appears to slow down as dozens of heads twist to regard the newcomer and every single pair of eyes widen upon seeing a solitary human lurching towards them, screeching out a broken battle cry that’s far more amusing than intimidating. In fact, several of the monsters take a few, fatal seconds to laugh brazenly. Taking advantage of this, the man cuts them down but you’re too focused on your own target to pay attention to what he’s doing. The behemoth slowed a fraction to glance at you, a move that proved to be its downfall. 

Upon looking to you, it inadvertently exposes the front of its face, the helm no longer proving an obstacle and although you’ve never, ever boasted to be a good shot, apparently, whatever that priest blessed you with worked because when the bullet explodes from your gun, it hits the monster dead centre, right between the yellow eyes and shatters its skull with a sickening crack.

The stranger had raised his head at the sound of your voice and followed your weapon’s aim to the charging beast when the shot rang out, stealing his chance to satiate his own bloodlust. There’s a grunt of surprise. Then, it pitches forward, drops its hammer and crumples to the hard ground, lifeless. 

The other monsters all stare down at their fallen leader, you can even sense the eyes of the man boring into the side of your head, although you haven’t actually looked at him yet. There’s another beat before every creature raises its head to look at you. 

Quivering, you see the closest of them have their lips pulled back over gnashing fangs and they’re snarling at you so raggedly, you almost drop the pistol, again. 

“Crap.”

In a flurry of motion, the creatures all burst back to life and hurl themselves at the insolent human who killed their leader. Yelping, you start to backpedal, not that you expect it to do much good. You’re far too close. There’s no escaping it this time. 

In a bid to spare yourself from having to see them chew your body to pieces, you squeeze your eyes shut, pushing the last tears you’ll ever cry down your face. Hiccoughing softly, you exhale -

\- and squawk when a thick arm snakes around your waist all of a sudden, lifting you off your feet. Your eyes fly open with a gasp and you find yourself draped over a broad, sinewy shoulder. From this new position, you have a lovely view of the monstrous horde, each clawing after you, spittle flying from their maws onto your face. They’re so hot on your heels, you can even smell their rancid breath. 

The man - you  _assume_  its the man - tightens his arm around the back of your legs as he darts between cars and across the square in an attempt to shake his pursuers. A shadow falls over you and you glance up, bobbing up and down whilst he runs, to see one of the flying creatures swooping down at you from high above. “Woah!” you exclaim and slap a hand on the man’s solid shoulder blade, “F-Faster! Go! Go! Run!” You’re so concerned about getting away that you don’t even register that his skin is ice-cold, not unlike that of a corpse. 

“Would you rather I drop you? So that  _you_  can run at your  _preferred_  pace?” the stranger snaps abruptly. 

He may have meant it abrasively, but you could weep with relief. 

Plain english. He’d spoken a  _human_  language. Father Michael  _was_  wrong. This man may be a little gruff and his voice is bursting with badly-disguised aggression…But he’s  _definitely_  human. 

“Nah! I’m good!” you shout, flicking your wobbly gaze above the heads of the pursuing creatures. On the horizon, you can see the old church and when you squint, you notice that there’s something huge landing on the roof. Something with enormous, leathery wings and a long, barbed tail. It’s screech is so loud, you can hear it over the rest of the din. The huge thing begins to bash at the church roof and you watch helplessly as the bell tower falls sideways, crashing through to the floor below. Uttering a triumphant howl, the giant pushes its way through the hole in the roof, following after the toppled bell. 

“He-hey! Wait,  _wait_!” you cry, thumping the man’s back again with your fists, “Go back! The  _church_  - we  _have_  to go back! We can’t leave them to that -  _that_ -” You know, even before he says anything, that it’s much too late. 

“Are you  _mad_ , human?” 

 ‘ _Human_?’

“Your church is lost!  _ **Earth**_  is lost!” 

He ducks into an alley and skids to a halt. 

Your face screws up defiantly. “YOU DON’T  _KNOW_  THAT!….” Several of the creatures that had managed to keep track of you slide around the corner, their eyes zeroing in on you. Realising that he isn’t moving, you start to breathe heavily, wriggling about in his grip. “Why’ve we stopped?” 

No response. 

The monsters slowly stalk up the dark alley towards you, brandishing their axes and licking their chops. 

“H-hey!?” you call again and twist yourself around painfully to try and see what’s going on. In an attempt to keep yourself elevated, your fingers find purchase on something hard, protruding from the man’s back. You gasp at the strange object and your eyes fly down to see what you’d touched, bulging out of their sockets when you realise that it’s his spine you’ve grabbed….It’s sticking out of him unnaturally and….how’ve you not noticed the paleness of his skin until now? Nor how eerily cold his skin feels beneath your touch. 

Dimly, your ears pick up the sound of gentle but cryptic murmuring and there’s a rumbling hum under your body, emanating from his chest and rolling up into his shoulders, where you lay. 

The creatures are barely ten feet away from you now, leering. They know they’ve caught you. 

Licking your lips, you inhale a shuddering breath and ask, “Why um..Why did you call me ‘ _human_ ’ before?” 

A quiet ‘ _shing_ ’ draws your attention down to the side, where you notice his free hand - _too big to be human_  - has long, spindly fingers, wrapped up in tight, bloodstained bandages and it’s clasped tight around the hilt of a formidable scythe. 

“… _What the fuck are you_?” 

Without warning, two of the three beasts roar and surge forwards with raised axes, ready to bring them down on your head. You scream and throw your head down, burying your face in cold skin.

At the very last moment, the man clamps his hand down hard on your legs and then whirls about. With an almighty heave, he launches his scythe through the air, sending it hurtling down the narrow alley which plays to his advantage because it leaves your attackers with no room to strafe. His aim is impossibly true, taking the heads clean off the two closest before it lodges itself in the shoulder of the third. 

You cover your ears when the wounded beast howls in pain and your eyes burst open wide at the sight before you. Now that you’re facing the wall at the back of the alley, you can see what had him so distracted. A pulsing, swirling portal of poison-green stretches across the surface of brick, high and wide enough to fit a person or two. Disturbingly, you find you can’t tear your gaze from the ominous doorway. You say ‘doorway’, because what  _else_  could it possibly be?

Even with your hands over them, you can’t stop your ears from hearing the ugly gurgling of a sliced throat, mere seconds later, nor the telltale slump of a trio of bodies hitting the ground. 

Your trembling is out of control now. It’s so violent, you’re afraid your head will fall off. The ‘man’ beneath you hums, clearly irritated as his shoulders heave up and down with his deep intakes of breath. 

Reluctantly, you open your mouth to speak, but nothing more than a tiny croak comes out and he stills, tilting his head to the side as if he’s listening to you. Again, you swallow drily and squeeze your hands into fists. “Please,” you utter breathlessly, “ _please_ , put me down. I..I need to find my mum…” Your bottom lip trembles and you choke on a sob whilst he mulls your words over. 

The sob escapes you loudly when he slowly shakes his head, hair brushing against the exposed skin on your back. “You won’t find your mother,” he grunts matter of factly, “I told you. Earth is lost.” 

Slapping a hand over your mouth, you cringe at the feeling of his sharp, alien fingers twitching against your thighs. “Just let me  _go_ ….”

“Do you  _want_  to die?” he snaps, sighing when it pulls a hiccough from your throat. 

You shake your head frantically and weakly reach back to push at the arm holding you down. Delirious with fright and insecurity, you babble several incoherent words before you finally manage to nail down a proper sentence. “Fuuu- I don’t  _like_  this!” 

With that, the man turns back to the alley wall which prompts you to begin struggling in earnest, though it does nothing to loosen his omnipotent hold. 

“Oh?” he hums, tone laced with morbid amusement, “Well then. You’re  _really_ not going to like what happens next.” 

And without ceremony, without even allowing you the chance to offer up some words of farewell to your  _home_ , the ‘man’ takes a few, confident steps and disappears into the green vortex, with you still dangling from one of his strong, bloodless shoulders. 

 

 


	2. Shock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You learn the identity of the mystery man and react perfectly appropriately, given the situation.

There’s something about ripping apart the fabric of reality and stepping from one world straight into another that the human body doesn’t especially agree with. Drastic drop in temperature notwithstanding.

Your brain, organs, even your blood cells know that they aren’t supposed to be squeezed through what’s essentially a miniature black hole and spat out on top of a mountain, so they protest, as is their right.

Your head spins violently as the man carrying you walks out of a dark, grey cliff-face and lands with a dull crunch onto glistening snow. The lurching of your stomach encourages you to still your frantic thrashing for a moment whilst you wait for your body to settle down and stop trying to turn itself inside out.

“Guh!” you groan miserably, laying pathetically limp over a shoulder that’s almost as thick as you are. There’s a low, warbling rumble emanating from somewhere far, far away, as though you’re submerged in deep water, listening to a train pass overhead on nearby tracks.

With another moan, you blink open your eyes only to immediately slam them shut again at the sudden intrusion of blinding light as the ringing in your ears gradually builds to a painful crescendo. It takes a few moments of laying perfectly still before the screeching tone begins to blessedly peter out, allowing other sounds to permeate your eardrums and register in your brain.

The first thing you notice is the howling of wind. It wails like a ghost and whips your hair about sporadically. Gradually, over the din, you become aware of someone speaking, a deep, monstrous growl that punches you in the chest when you recognise it, and suddenly, the events of the last several hours come rushing back, bringing with them the ability to move and speak.

The man holding you has been talking to you, trying to ask if you’re still alive and grumbling to himself at your lack of response when, all of a sudden, you flail into action, screaming incoherently and kicking out with your legs.

“Ah, good. You didn’t die of fright,” he chuckles, then winces as you yelp shrilly right next to his ear. “…Well….Not  _yet_ , at least.”

Still putting up a fight, panic pushing bile up your throat, you bend your arm back and push frantically against his head, fingers twisting into thick, greasy hair. “LET. ME.  _GO_!” you try to bellow fiercely. The fact that your voice comes out as more of a squeak shatters the pitiful illusion you’re trying to create, of being far braver than you actually are.

Grunting when you tug sharply on his locks, the man warns, “If you don’t stop squirming, I’m  _going_  to drop you.”

But your heart is too busy hammering its way out of your chest for you to pay attention, so you continue to thrash around in his unshakable grip, the only direction springing to mind being, ‘ _get away_ ,’ as though you’re sensing, deep in your soul, that this impregnable man is…. _wrong_. On a natural and metaphysical level.

Heaving a long-suffering sigh, he rolls his eyes up to the clear sky. “Suit yourself.” And with that, he releases your thighs and drops his shoulder, sending you toppling several feet into a pile of powdery snow.

“Oof!”

“I  _did_  warn you.”

Quick as a flash, you flip yourself onto your back and kick out frantically, scrabbling away from him in a mad dash. Your eyes are still squinted painfully against the sudden intrusion of light, but the fear of not being able to see the stranger has you fighting to open them. One of your hands flies up to shield you from the brightness and its under that small blip of shadow that you blink rapidly, trying to focus on the blurry shape in front of you. Slowly, the visage of the large man becomes clearer, and when it does, you don’t scream, you don’t even utter a peep. You  _can’t_. Terror has coated your tongue with lead.  

The stranger is looming over you, his eyes of smouldering embers staring down, half bored, half amused. He’s like nothing you’ve ever seen. In the dark alley, his skin had looked pale but out  _here_ ….

You’d seen a corpse, once. A young man you worked with, who had no immediate family, so the police called  _you_  in to identify the body. They hadn’t even put him on ice yet, but he was disturbingly cold to the touch, regardless. His skin, a waxy grey with just the barest tint of purple, was stretched taut over his bones and clung in an ugly manner to every muscle and joint. 

You’re reminded instantly of that man when you look at the one standing over you. His own skin is that same, pale grey – a stark contrast to his eyes which burn so brightly, they could even be made of fire - and you can see every single bulging muscle, every bone and tendon and every sinew as it hugs the broad expanse of his exposed chest and arms. On his face, he wears a white, mouthless death-mask which, in spite of his intimidating height, is really his  _most_  menacing feature.  

When he speaks, his voice rolls over you like brontide, different from when he spoke in the alley. Back then, it was sharp and strained because he had to raise it to be heard above a dying city.  _Now_  though…

“It’s alri-”

He only manages to get out half a sentence as he approaches before you release a terror-stricken scream and hurl a fistful of snow at him. It thwacks against his chest with a wet squelch and then slides down to his belly, dripping into the lining of the thick, leather belt that hangs around his scrawny waist.

Your eyes follow the trail, teeth chattering violently despite how hard you’ve clenched your jaw shut.

“…Charming,” he grumbles, though he doesn’t take another step towards you. 

In a snap, your tongue comes unglued to the roof of your mouth and you splutter, “Wha! Where- What is this!? Where am I? Who…who  _are_  you? Let me go, I-I won’t tell anyone!” Too many thoughts run through your head and tumble out of your mouth in a desperate rush.

You barely even know what you’ve asked until he blinks slowly at you and replies, “This is the Crowfather’s realm and that should also answer your  _second_  question. Now, as for who I am…” He pauses to extend a hand, meaning for you to grab it so he can pull you up, but instead, you jolt and flail about in the snow for a moment, hurriedly pushing yourself back a few more feet.

Huffing, the man curls his fingers into a fist and it drops to his side again. With a roll of his eyes, he clears his throat and says, as casually as though he’s remarking on the weather, “I am Death.”

You blink at him for several, long, cold moments before raising your shivering fingers to your head and taking fistfuls of your hair between them. “No, no, no, no- haha!- No that’s not - Maybe I’m… _Am_  I?”

Death quirks his head, narrows an eye and regards you curiously, It becomes relatively clear that you’ve lapsed into shock. Now you’re  _talking_  to yourself. Wonderful.

Suddenly, you exclaim sharply and snap your head up, the faintest glimmer of hope igniting in your chest and warming you in the frigid cold of the mountain snow. “ _Wait_!” you laugh breathlessly, “Wait I know what this is!  _Oh_  my God. Oooh! Oh thank  **god**!” Elated, you flop back into the snow and place a hand on your chest which heaves up and down, relieved.

“What’s wrong with  _you_?” Death asks warily. 

In response, you throw him a weak smile and gasp, “It’s just a  _dream_!”

His expression immediately falls flat. 

With a deep sigh, Death pinches his nose-ridge and shakes his head disdainfully when he’s abruptly interrupted by something large and feathery landing on his shoulder and digging it’s talons into his pale flesh for balance. “And where’ve  _you_  been?” he asks the crow, throwing the enormous, black bird a disapproving look. By way of a reply, ‘Dust’ simply caws evasively and tilts his head, staring down at you with a dark, beady eye.

Paying no attention to the newcomer nor the man, you sit up quickly and rub at your eyes, still shivering fit to burst. “Alright, I’m dreaming,” you clarify, raising your hand and holding it parallel to your face, “None of this can be real. So, I just need to wake myself up. No big deal!”

Unsure exactly of what’s happening, Death glances at the crow and then at you before he ambles towards you hesitantly.

He jerks back not a moment later because there’s a sudden, resounding  _smack_ that makes even the reaper wince. With your eyes closed tight and brimming with fresh tears, you give yourself one more, hard slap for good measure and look up. Immediately, your face falls from hopeful anticipation to confused apprehension upon seeing  _him_ instead of the walls of your bedroom, as you’d expected.

“Wha-?” You pause, eyes flicking over his mask before you scrunch your face up and squeeze your eyes shut again. “Come  _on_!” you plead shakily, “Wake. UP!” Repeating yourself over and over, you punctuate each word with a fresh smack. 

Death and Dust exchange another look, the former apparently reading something in the crow’s expression because he says, “I don’t know. This is the strangest thing… Yes, humans  _have_  been known to faint when they see me.” Here, they both peer down at you again, Death crouching to study you closer. “But I’ve never seen one try to  _make_  themselves pass out.”

Rumpling his feathers, Dust squawks and flits from his master’s shoulder onto the snowy ground. He hops over to you until he’s right beside your left knee and chatters to get your attention.

“Huh?” you gasp, pulling your hand away from your reddening face and blinking down into the jet black eyes of the biggest crow you’ve ever seen. “W-woah…Is that a crow? I heard, dreaming about crows is a -  _ **OW**_!” You snatch away the hand that had just been resting innocently in the snow and clutch it to your chest protectively. “ _Hey_!”

Dust, having decided to take the initiative, had seen fit to turn his sharp beak towards your forefinger and - completely  _un_ provoked - given your soft flesh a razor-sharp peck.

Stunned, you give the crow a dirty look, crying out indignantly, “That  _really-”_ You hesitate, glancing down at your wounded finger. Hot, red blood oozes steadily down the length of it and drips into the snow at your feet.   
“-really… _hurt_?” Even though the temperature has to be well below zero, you can still feel the chill that dances up your spine. A heavy weight drops into your chest and all the sound from the outside seems so quiet next to the blood rushing in your ears. Falteringly, you drag your head up to fix a pair of petrified eyes upon the man crouched in front of you.

He seems to be preoccupied with scowling at the crow. “Haven’t you even the common courtesy of waiting until its  _dead_  before you start eating something?” Dust merely resumes pecking at the fresh spots of blood that stain the snow. 

“No…” you breathe, drawing the attention of the pale, masked man again. His glare, though steady, carries the promise of a snapped temper that lays just a hairsbreadth under the surface. “No. Why didn’t that wake me up? You - you can’t be real! You are  _not_   ** _real_**!” 

Sneering beneath the mask, Death braces his hands against his knees and pushes himself to stand, all the while keeping your wild eyes locked with his. “You’d best hope,” he rumbles, “that I  _am_  real. Because as of now, I am the  _only_  thing standing between you and certain-….  _Where_  do you think you’re going?”

Incredulous, Death’s jaw drops and he stares after you as you get to your feet, whirl around and begin to meander away from him on wobbly legs. “No! No, no, no. This is  _too_  much, this is  _too_.  **Much**!” The cold is finally starting to get to you, slowing your movements and tiring you out faster than normal. Snow, ankle deep, impedes your progress but still you march numbly away from the man calling himself ‘Death.’ There isn’t a bone in your body that is ready to accept that what’s happening to you is real.

Watching you stumble and trip your way down the mountain, Death’s mouth remains agape, at least until his brows snap together and he hardens his expression into something suitably steely. “Fine,” he shrugs, nonchalant, “I tried. If she dies, that’s  _her_  fault.” And with that, he turns on his heel, fully intending to pursue the  _actual_  reason he came to this realm; To find the Crowfather.

He makes it all of a few strides before Dust, who has since reclaimed the perch on Death’s pale shoulder, hisses at him vehemently. To his credit, Death ignores the crow for another several seconds. Then, his footsteps drag to a reluctant halt. “ _Don’t_  look back,” he murmurs, voice commanding. Though it’s unclear whether he’s talking to himself or the bird.

A few more strides forwards, and then..

“ _Damnit_.” 

—

You’ve made embarrassingly little progress down the snow covered mountain. Cold, lost and still half-convinced that this is all a mere figment of your imagination, you don’t even notice that you’ve stopped.

Your mind is blank, a desolate wasteland, void of intelligible thought. You feel like you’re caught fluctuating between shock and denial, which hardly seems fair. You’re supposed to be able to move past the shock,  _after_  which comes the denial. Not one, then the other and then  _back_  again. The pamphlets made it sound so clear-cut.

The icy wind slices painfully at your skin and whips strands of hair into your face, it’s biting presence sad proof that everything happening to you is happen for real. In an uncomfortable sense, the freshness of it on your skin helps you come around and think clearly again.  “ _I’ve got to get out of here_ …” you whisper, watching your breath come out in a puff of white fog. 

At that moment, something grabs a hold of your jumper’s thick scruff and lifts you clear off your feet. “Gack!” you exclaim, choking as you’re spun about in an iron grip to face the thing that has a hold on you. 

For a second, you’re convinced that Death has caught up to you and is staring furiously into your eyes, looking for all the world like he wants nothing more than to swallow you whole. But through the panic, you manage to discern that the narrowed eyes looming just inches from your face do not, in fact, look familiar. These ones are a frosty blue and they burn with considerably less intensity. And this bleached-white skull actually has a mouth. A mouth that stretches open wide in a hideous, guttural roar, flecks of saliva spraying over your exposed face and drenching you in the stinking liquid. 

Suddenly, it all begins to feel a tad  _too_  real. 

Reverting to the natural reaction one has when finding oneself in immediate danger, you open your own mouth and shout to the heavens as loud as you can, briefly startling the massive skeletal creature, “ _ **HELP**_!”

The skeleton’s teeth clack together close to your nose and it throws its head back, shrieking out a grating laugh that sounds more as if it’s trying to gargle a couple of nails. 

With a low growl, it drops it head again and exhales sharply through it’s nose, twin streams of cold air rushing out and hitting your face. Movement to your right catches your attention and you flick your gaze down to it, horrified to find that the skeleton’s right hand is balled into a fist and is raising up over it’s head.

Kicking out with your legs, you try to land a blow on its bony thigh. But its arms are too long and it holds you  _just_  out of reach. Suddenly, an idea springs to mind, one so simple, you kick yourself for not having thought of it sooner. Without hesitating a second further, you yank your arms through the holes in your jumper and duck your head, slipping free and falling to the ground. The skeleton grunts in surprise and throws the article aside to roar down at you as you struggle to your feet.

You shriek, throwing your arms up when it lunges, however, before it can get it’s sharp claws on you, a familiar, curved blade suddenly bursts out of its flesh, impaling the ice skeleton right below its sternum. It gives off one, wet grunt and then falls limp, dead….Deader

Your eyes are fixed on a pair of brown, leather boots, one of which lifts to kick the fallen creature out of the way. Tentatively, you trail your gaze up and up until you’re once again staring into the face of Death. Throwing his scythe back onto his belt, he glowers at you disdainfully and raises a finger to say something,  although he soon catches sight of your jumper, laying on the snowy ground. Scowl deepening, Death stalks over to it and plucks it up. He returns to you and, without waiting for you to take it, balls it up and throws it down to you. “Here,” he grumbles, “every layer counts in this realm. Especially to a human.” 

Unable to stand the abominable cold any longer, you give Death a wary once-over - unaware that he’s doing the same to you -before stuffing your hands back into the arm holes and pulling the jumper over your head, sighing at the brief respite it grants you from the air. 

Momentarily forgetting yourself, you pop your head out of the top and quietly whisper a quivering, “Thank you.” 

Death blinks, eyes going round in surprise. “You are…” he clears his throat awkwardly, “welcome.”

Patiently, he waits for you to finish adjusting your clothes. “So. Still convinced this a dream?” he asks, pulling something else from a pouch on his belt. 

Now, excruciatingly cold and far too tired both physically and emotionally, you inhale deeply through your nose and exhale. You repeat the motion a few times, just to calm down. It helps, but only fractionally, enough to raise your head and stammer between violent shivers, “Mo-more like a n-nightm-mare.”

‘ _Progress, at last_ ,’ he thinks. 

This time, when Death reaches for you, you only flinch away. You don’t go into a full-blown panic like last time. “Relax,” he mutters with a roll of his eyes, “I’m only trying to give you this.”

Slowly, he opens his large hand and uncurls his fingers, revealing a familiar object you’d completely forgotten about until now. It sits easily in the palm of his hand, looking so tiny and ineffective.

“My..my gun!” you gasp, tentatively reaching for it. Hesitating before you grab it, you squint up at him, your brow slowly furrowing. You jump when he suddenly shakes it at you and barks, “Well? Take it. I don’t have all day.” 

‘Not strictly true,’ he muses, but doesn’t think it relevant. 

Nodding quickly, you snatch the gun out of his hand and clutch it in both hands, a wave of relief cascading over you when you feel it’s weight. Already, you feel safer. At last, curiosity begins to dribble into your mind so you look up dazedly and tilt your head to the side, regarding Death for a moment. “But. Why?” you ask. 

He busies himself by fiddling with the bandages around his wrists, replying, “You dropped it, after you shot that phantom general. I thought you might want it, so I grabbed it when I grabbed you.” 

You can’t help yourself. You have to ask, “But…a-aren’t you afrai-” 

“Afraid that you’ll use it to shoot me?” he interrupts. With a snort, Death crosses his arms across his chest and peers at you down his nose ridge. “You can go ahead and shoot me, if you like. I guarantee you won’t like the results. You could press that thing against my skull and empty the chamber and it wouldn’t really hurt me. I cannot be harmed by one of your flimsy, mortal weapons.” His voice turns smug and you can practically see the smirk beneath his mask. “One of the perks of being Death, little human. You’ll find I’m  _very_ hard to kill.” 

Interestingly enough, the pistol isn’t anywhere  _near_  as reassuring now. Swallowing thickly, you curl your legs away from him and tense your shoulders. Taking notice of this, he considers you for a while and hums pensively. Then, his demeanour changes. In the blink of an eye, he unfolds his arms and any trace of superiority disappears from his eyes. “If I wanted to kill you,” he explains more softly, “I would have left you to die when those demons attacked.” 

“De-demons!” you squeak, pressing a hand to your chest. “Those things were.. _demons_!?”  

One of his eyes narrows. “You..have no idea what’s happening, do you?” he says slowly. When you shake your head, Death blows out his cheeks and rests a hand on his hip. “Well, I can shed some light on the subject, but not here. If I try to explain everything here, you’ll just freeze where you sit, and  _then_  where will we be? Now, come along.” 

Bending down, he doesn’t give you the chance to escape before he curls his fingers into the shoulder of your jumper and hauls you up and onto your feet. You’re about to start fighting him off, but he lets go and watches you with an unreadable expression. “I-I don’t want to go with you!” 

His only response is a languid blink. 

“I…I want to go  _home_.” 

Overhead, the wind howls and huge chunks of nearby mountain peaks break off, tumbling down into the abyss below the clouds. All the while, you and Death are locked in a terse staring match, one that you both know he will win. To your surprise, Death breaks eye-contact first. With a shrug, he makes a show of  inspecting the dirt beneath his nails. “Suit yourself,” he hums, “No skin off my back. After all, now that you’ve got your gun, nothing in this realm stands a  _chance_.” He turns on his heel and begins trudging back the way he came, calling over his shoulder, “Good luck. I imagine you’ll need a lot.” With that, he gradually begins to be obscured by the falling flakes of snow. 

“Hey, wait!” you shout, glancing around nervously, on the very cusp of panicking again, “At least…tell me which way home is!” 

Thankfully, Death draws to a halt a fair distance from you, looking back. “I told you, you’ll find no way back to Earth from this realm, and even if you could, your home is  _gone_. There’s nothing left to go back  _to_!” 

Unable to form a response, you gulp in air, feeling a heavy weight settle back over your heart. The sensation doubles when he begins to stroll further away again and you realise, with a hot thud of dismay, that the safest place you could be right now, is more than likely at his side. 

Stranded on a strange mountain, alone, cold, afraid and exhausted, you drop your head onto your chest, clamp your eyes shut and stuff your bottom lip into your teeth in an attempt to kickstart a bout of courage.  

Indecisively, you turn your head to peer down the mountain, away from Death. You could try to make it alone, but then again, you hadn’t made it a hundred yards before that skeleton monster appeared. You’d only survived because the strange, terrifying man calling himself ‘Death’ had saved you. Without answers, armed only with a small pistol carrying four bullets, you reluctantly drag your head back in the direction he’d disappeared, now completely invisible in the flurry of snowflakes. 

You put the gun into your waistband again before jamming your fingers under your armpits and draw in a long breath. “Hey, wait!” you yell, hurrying after what’s possibly the most dangerous person you’ve ever met in your life. 

Death tries not to let his smugness show in his eyes when he hears the rapid crunching of snow underfoot approaching from behind. out of the corner of his eye, he sees you sidle up beside him, maintaining a wide distance between you both but keeping pace, all the same. Softly, you ask, “Can I come with you?” 

“What changed your mind?” 

Giving a little shrug, you rub at your arms and shiver as a gust of wind picks up. “M scared.” 

“Good,” he replies immediately, “A little fear can be a very sensible thing, but it can also be quite counter-productive.”

“What happened?” 

Death shoots you a sideways glance, noticing that you’re keeping your eyes on the toes of your shoes, walking stiffly. He can  _smell_  your fear of him rolling off you in waves. Despite the broad question, he knows what you’re asking. “You’ve heard of the apocalypse?” he asks.

You nod, swallowing down a sob. Yes, you’ve heard of it, you just don’t want to believe it.

“Well, that’s what happened to your Earth,” he continues, pretending that he didn’t notice you smack a hand over your mouth to hide a wail of despair. “But it was never supposed to.” 

 _That_  got your attention. “What?” 

Death grumbles. “Someone triggered the apocalypse prematurely and framed my brother, War, for the crime. I intend to find out who did that, and why. Then, I’m going to kill them.” Lowering his voice, he sighs. “But first, I intend to prove my brother’s innocence-” He peers down at you, gauging your reaction when he adds, “-by resurrecting humanity.” 

To his surprise, rather than surprised or elated, as he’d expected, you merely furrow your brow, clinging to the sleeves of your jumper. “So….they’re really gone…” 

He doesn’t say anything, and you find your answer in that. 

The two of you walk on through the snow in silence for a while before his ears perk up at you mumbling, “So…how’re you gonna get them back?” 

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly, “That’s what I’m here to find out. I need to consult the Crowfather. If anyone can point me in the right direction, it’s  _that_  old twit.” 

The reaper raises an eyebrow at an explosive sneeze that abruptly bursts out of you. Wiping your nose, you cast your gaze up to the sky, spotting a pitch black shape of Death’s crow soaring hundreds of feet over your heads. “The who?”

Grimacing, Death picks up his pace, which prompts you to trot after him in an effort to keep pace, apparently not picking up on his ploy to warm you up. “Stick close,” he orders, “And you’ll soon find out. I warn you though, he doesn’t take kindly to visitors, even those he’s  _expecting_.” 

“….Death, was it?” you ask out of the blue, at last raising your glistening eyes to his face, “Did….did you say your brother’s name is…. _War_?”

“I did,” he bobs his head, eyeing the looming cliff face up ahead that blocks your path.

“That wouldn’t….make you the…the  _um_ …the…”

“The horsemen of the apocalypse?” he finishes for you impatiently, “Yes. It would.”

“Oh,” you rasp, pursing your lips and nodding, “ _Shit_.”


	3. The Old Man of the Mountain.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trapped in a strange realm with an even stranger man, you have little choice but to go along with him. You meet his horse, his crow....But then you meet the Crowfather and everything really starts getting strange.

If you asked a friend to describe you in one word, you’re fairly certain that ‘brave’ wouldn’t be their first choice. And, in all honesty, you’d be inclined to agree.

You aren’t brave. Not  _really_. Not in the ways that matter. You’re just notoriously good at making rash decisions and charging into danger, only to begin regretting your hasty judgement almost immediately.  _That_  isn’t brave.  
Now,  _stupid_  would be more apt.

Which is why it doesn’t sting too much when Death calls you a coward.

You suppose that’s fair. But then again,  _he’s_  used to seeing a nineteen hand zombie-horse burst from the snow-covered ground in an explosion of green mist and spectral whinnies.

For the umpteenth time today, your piercing scream rends the air and you stagger backwards until you bump painfully against Death’s hard chest.

“Given your antics back on Earth, I’d have never taken you for such a  _coward_ ,” he gripes, taking one of your shoulders in each hand and sliding you over to the horse.

“Wo-ah! Wait a second!” You push back against his unwavering grip to no avail, staring agape at the giant steed. “What  _is_  that thing?!”

‘ _That thing_ ’ gives you a dirty look, flattening it’s bony ears against a gangling neck.

“ _He_  is a horse,” Death says flatly, “I’m surprised you don’t recognise a horse when you see one.”

With a gentle shove, you find yourself standing below it’s muzzle, craning your neck up to see it glaring down at you, unblinking. Meanwhile, Death walks around the great beast and places one foot in a large, metal stirrup, pulling himself into the saddle.

“That is not a horse!” you yelp, eyeing the exposed fangs jutting from it’s upper jaw, “that is a kelpie on  _steroids_!… Does this thing eat meat?”

“On occasion,” Death replies with a shrug, taking up the reins, “though I’d be more wary of Dust on that front, if I were you.”

You throw a mistrustful look to the crow that’s perched himself on the saddle-horn and rub at the welt his beak left in your finger. “Yeah, I’m with you there..”

“In his defence, he was only trying to help you ‘wake up.’” Tilting his head to the side, Death studies you for a moment, wondering why you’re still rooted to the spot and haven’t mounted yet. “Not a horse person?” he guesses.

You scoff, taking a step back when the steed tosses its wispy mane and paws at the ground, sensing his rider’s impatience.

“Oh no.  _Horses_  are fine. I  _like_  horses. It’s just, this thing is-”

Harrumphing, Death clears his throat and reaches down to rest his hand on Despair’s neck. “I would advise  _against_  insulting him,” he warns, “Despair is inclined to take things to heart.”

“His name is  _Despair_?” You quirk an eyebrow and look the horse over, unable to suppress a conforming nod. “That’s….fitting.”

Despair flicks his ears forwards curiously at the sound of his name and lowers his head, blowing a gust of cold air out through his…he doesn’t have nostrils…

Regardless, it blows your hair back off your face.

The spectral horse whickers softly as he stares into your eyes, Death grumbling under his breath, “Will you hurry up and introduce yourself. I’d rather not linger in this realm any longer than I have to.”   
Luckily for the horseman, you’re too busy matching Despair’s luminous gaze to notice him furrow his brow beneath the mask, humming at the shivers that occasionally wrack your tiny body.   
Tentatively, you allow yourself to be sniffed as you slowly raise your quivering hand to brush lightly over Despair’s cold, hairless muzzle. When he doesn’t immediately snap your fingers off, you venture to lay your palm flat over his nose, the heel of your hand pressing up against his front teeth that are uncovered by any semblance of lips.

“Wow,” you breathe, the corner of your mouth twitching up into a tiny smile, “You are…quite terrifying, you know that?”

By way of a reply, the horse gives you a proud snort and a lazy blink, letting his ears droop. Your hands - unlike Death’s - are pleasantly warm and soft against his muzzle and the way your fingertips trace up and down the length of his nose bone is arguably one of the most incredible things he’s ever felt.

From the saddle, Death observes the exchange and quirks a thoughtful brow, humming low in his chest. All it took was a little gentleness from the horse and your fear had all but dissolved. After allowing his mount another few seconds of affection, he clears his throat and tugs on the reins. “If you’re  _quite_  finished, I’d like to make a move before  _this_  one freezes,” he mutters gruffly, nodding towards you.

The horse’s ears fall flat against his skull and he reluctantly lifts his head, letting your hand slide down his jaw before it falls back to your side. Without warning, the horseman clicks his tongue and Despair whirls bodily about-face, forcing you to stumble away to avoid being knocked over. Before you can make it too far though, Death leans to the side and reaches down to wrap his fingers around your upper arm.

“Hey!” you cry out, startled at the inexhaustible strength laying hidden beneath a thin layer of pale skin, “what’re you-!”

Rather than let you finish your sentence, he effortlessly lifts you into the air, only to drop you roughly onto the saddle in front of him.

Mouth hanging open, stunned, you make eye contact with Dust, frowning when he cocks his head and gives you a squawk of greeting. “Uh…Hi?” you stammer. He bobs his head and opens his wings, flapping madly into the air. A second later, you realise why.

There’s barely enough time to throw your hands around the saddle horn before Despair suddenly rears back onto his hind legs and stretches his jaw open wide to release a haunting whinny, somewhat lost to the howling of wind.   
In a burst of motion, he launches himself forwards like a bullet, bursting into a hard gallop.

The unladylike word that blows past your lips is also drowned out and the uncomfortable closeness of the horseman pressing his cold chest into your back doesn’t help your mounting terror. You still don’t think its prudent to trust  _anyone_ who introduces himself as ‘Death,’ and not to mention claims to be one of the biblical horsemen. Unfortunately, the proof that’s been presented to you thus far has left  _very_ little room for argument.

So here you are, bent over the neck of a half-decayed horse with its master’s strong, ashen arms stretched around you at either side, keeping you from slipping out of the saddle as you careen along the narrow, icy mountain path.

Hundreds of questions linger at the very tip of your tongue, but to ask them, you would need to shout to be heard over the pounding of hooves and the air roaring past your ears. So, lacking both the energy and the courage to shout, you keep your mouth clamped shut and duck your head against the icy wind that bites at your cheeks and stings your eyes.

Death spares you a cursory glance before he gives Despair’s reins a flick, spurring the horse on just a little faster and kicking up a vortex of snowflakes as he goes.

—-

It could have been hours since you began to ride. Or it could have been mere minutes. Time feels stretched and warped here, the mountain never seems to change. Just the same grey rocks and stark white snow that flies past at a rate of knots. For a while, you can busy your mind by staring at the green, spectral faces that occasionally slip out from the rotting holes in Despair’s neck. They appear so briefly before whisking past your head and getting dispersed to the wind as your little group gallops along the mountain path, you can’t be sure they aren’t simply figments of your imagination.

Just as the ghostly faces start to lose their enrapturing appeal, Despair suddenly throws his head back and neighs shrilly, thundering to an unsteady halt at the base of a sheer cliff. The chest pressing up against your back rumbles gently as Death speaks. “We’re here.”

Slowly, you pry your numb fingers off the saddle-horn and peer around uncertainly, still hunched in on yourself as though expecting a sudden attack from some, unseen assailant.

‘ _Here_ ’ doesn’t seem to be an apt description. Upon taking a moment to nervously study your surroundings, you find that you’re still in the middle of nowhere, at a perfectly dead end.

“We..we  _are_?” you shiver as Death lifts himself from the horse’s back and jumps elegantly back into the snow.

“Well, if you’re going to be fastidious, then no. Not quite,” he grouches, standing back to watch you swing your right leg over the saddle, “Incidentally, how are you at climbing?”

With a surprised grunt, you drop to the ground a good few feet further than you’d anticipated and stumble on uneven feet into a steadying hand. Death’s chuckle is as condescending as he can make it. “From the looks of it, not very good.” He pushes you upright again, allowing you to turn and fix him with a huffy glower.

“What are you talking about? You don’t mean climb  _that_?” You nod towards the cliff.

“It’s the fastest way to get to the Crowfather’s main chamber,” he explains and glances over your shoulder, waving a hand gracefully through the air.

Behind you, Despair gives a farewell whicker, rearing up and disappearing back into whatever realm he’d been pulled from in a burst of sallow green light.

“Therefore,” the horseman continues, taking a calculated step up to you and measuring the tentative step  _you_  take away from him, “we climb.”

Looking down at the suede, black kitten heels that cover the barest part of your feet, you laugh wetly, shaking your head. “What? In  _these_  shoes? I don’t think so.”

The horseman, for lack of any delicate tact, heaves a considerably long sigh and turns with hands on his hips to glare up at the cliff face. “I thought as much.”

Dimly, you feel the instinctive need to say sorry prickle at the back of your throat, though you quickly swallow the apology as it creeps onto your tongue. Why  _should_  you apologise? It’s not as though the inability to scale an icy cliff is a common inconvenience to people. Still, you bite your lip and frown at your shoes, as though they really  _are_  the sole reason that you can’t climb.

A shadow slinks over the snow and stops inches from the toes of your shoes, prompting you to look up and gulp at the sight of Death regarding you expectantly.

“You know what this means, yes?” he says.

More than a little hopeful, you screw your face up into a hesitant smile and reply, “I get to stay  _here_?”

He bows his head, blinking down at you flatly and pointedly.

Slowly, your face droops. “I  _have_  to climb?” you guess.  

Huffing, Death’s eyes snap to the skies above, exasperated. “No. That’ll take too long. It  _means_  I’m going to have to carry you.”

“Oh….”

“Unless you’d prefer to stay here and freeze to death?”

“….”

A slow frown pulls his eyebrows together. “ _Would_  you, human?”

“…Y/n.”

In an instant, Death’s eyes flash, curious. “ _Y/n_? That’s your name.”

Silently, you nod, chewing thoughtfully on your bottom lip and considering whether or not he even cares  _what_  he calls you. So you’re left relatively amazed when the pale rider bobs his head pensively and repeats your name in a soft voice. “Y/n, then….Do you trust me?”

Would it anger him when you say no?

After a second or two, you decide to simply shrug noncommittally and avoid his fiery gaze.

With a rough sigh, Death twists his head to the side, staring at something invisible in the distance.   
In the quiet, you get up the nerve to peek at the underside of his mask as you suppress another uncontrollable shiver. It takes a few more moments of staring at nothing before his eyes flick back onto you.

“Fair enough,” he rumbles, “Then I apologise for this.”

“For what?”

You’re starting to notice a recurring theme. One where you keep getting manhandled without a single, courteous word of warning.

In one, swift motion, Death spins around so that his back is to you and swings an arm behind him, his palm catching your backside and hoisting you up onto his curved spine, your legs sliding naturally around a skinny but powerful waist.

With a yelp, you instinctively clutch at his solid shoulders and in doing so, allow him the opportunity to grab your wrists in both hands and give your arms a sharp tug, wrapping them firmly around his thick neck. Then, without giving you the chance to get your bearings, he takes your forearms in one hand, holding them in place and takes a running leap at the side of the cliff.

Death sails straight up into the air and snags a jutting piece of rock with his free hand, digging the toes of his boots into another gap.

“Son! Of! A! Bitch!” you hiss through gritted teeth, burying your face into his matted, black hair and punctuating each word with a kick of your heel against his stomach, “Stop  _grabbing_  me!”

The horseman grins beneath his mask at the feeble kicking and braces his feet against the wall, keeping his hand snugly around your wrists when he launches himself up again and sweeps his arm in a graceful arc to curl his fingers around another handhold somewhere several feet above his head.

You scream with fright and twist your head over your shoulder to look down at the snowy ground, now a sizeable distance below you.   
Once again, his staggering strength and agility both unnerves and amazes you. He’s scaling the wall like some kind of oversized beetle with only one arm and a trembling human clinging to his back.

“You know, if you’d’ve just  _asked_ , I might have gotten on your back willingly!” you rasp, tearing your eyes off the drop below you and pushing your face back into the questionable safety of the horseman’s hair.

Unwittingly, Death’s eyes go round when he feels your shuddering breath against the back of his neck. Briefly, he laments on the warmth of your body on his, how unfamiliar it is, as alien to him as a heartbeat, which he can also feel pounding furiously through your chest against his back.

“You might have refused.” He pauses to scrabble up a particularly slippery stretch of cliff. “I don’t have that kind of time, I’m afraid.”

“Whatever!” you squeak, “Just don’t drop me!”

“No promises,” he mumbles.

After a soft whimper at his flippant reply, you fall silent again and focus on keeping your legs wrapped tightly around his waist. Evidently, he’s tired of conversation as well, for he simply shrugs his massive shoulders, hefting you up a little higher up on his back before continuing the arduous task ahead of him.

The ordeal is over surprisingly quickly.

Before you know it, the horseman is letting go of your forearms and hoisting you over the lip of the rocky cliff.

“There.  _Now_  we’re here,” he grunts, standing up and shaking his arms out. When you don’t respond, he cranes his head to the side and tries to peer at you. “Human?”

You haven’t even noticed, but your hands are still clutched around his neck in a grip that could put a pro wrestler to shame. He waits a few more seconds for you to respond. When you don’t, he inhales deeply. “Y/n?”

Abruptly, your eyes snap open and you whip your head about, finally realising where you are and what you’re doing “Oh shi-!” In an instant, you snatch your arms away and drop from his back. “Sorry! Sorry!”

The white death-mask turns in your direction briefly, amber eyes finding yours and stilling you with a mere look. You remain like that for some time, locked in yet another staring contest with a bonafide horseman of the apocalypse. But tis time, the expression hidden behind those terrible eyes is one you’d associate with curiosity, inquisitiveness rather than malice or asperity. ‘ _What are you looking for?’_  you wonder, slowly narrowing your eyes.   
Then Death blinks, and the look is gone.

“Mind the cliff,” he mutters gruffly, turning away and stalking deliberately down a tall, wide tunnel carved into the side of the mountain, through which you can make out the shape of something huge and dark moving slowly behind an ethereal, blue light.

Glancing back, you start when you realise that you are indeed barely a foot away from a painful plummet. Pulling your face into a grimace, you rub at your arms and follow after the bizarre horseman.

The icy walls of the tunnel glisten prettily - all greens, blues and silvers and you smile gently, staring at your warped reflection as it walks along beside you. “Death?” Piping up tentatively, you bravely amble a little closer to his side and crane your neck back to look up at him,“Can..can I ask you-”

“I told you. I will answer your questions later.”

Your forehead creases into a hard scowl. “But you said that last time! I just want to know wh-”

“Y/n,” he barks suddenly and whips his head over a shoulder to glare at you, cutting you off and making you suck down a nervous gasp, “This is neither the time, nor the place. You will get your answers when I deem it fit to give them,  _not_  a moment sooner. Am I clear?”

His voice is sharp as a whip-crack and colder than the ice you walk on. Swallowing down a watery sob, you offer him a shaky nod. Once you do, you can’t be entirely sure, but you  _think_  those blazing eyes soften just a fraction.

“Good,” he says as he faces forwards again, “Now, stay close, stay  _quiet_ , and let  _me_  do the talking.”

“Okay,” you croak, feeling like a thoroughly admonished pre-schooler.

Satisfied, the tall horseman strides on.

Heeding his first instruction, you hurry to close the distance between you, sticking as close to his back as you dare without actually treading on the heels of his boots.

Up ahead, the tunnel opens out into an enormous, open chamber, hollowed out of the very mountain itself. Your eyes grow wider and wider with each step you take and unbeknownst to you, your mouth hangs open, awed by the sight.   
At the far end of the room stands a pair of huge, stone statues of dark granite that depict perched crows, both of which overlook a jagged, icy throne where a figure sits hunched and dark against the cold sunlight behind it.

Your eyes are drawn to several monumental circles of floating rock that hang suspended in the air high above the throne, each one beautifully carved into a circle, or semicircle that rotate around each other gracefully, like an enormous, intricate planisphere.

“Hoooly crap,” you breathe, “This place is  _impossible_!”

A loud squawk alerts you to the approach of a crow and you barely manage to duck in time as Dust soars over your head into the chamber in front of you and Death, who makes his way purposefully towards the throne  _and_  the figure sitting in it.   
The bird lands on one of the armrests and hops around to face you as the stranger mutters something under its breath and clutches at a balding head.

“Keeper of secrets,” Death calls suddenly, earning the attention of the figure who’s head snaps up at the sound of his gravelly voice, “I need your help.”

The person in the throne draws back and in doing so, moves their hands away from their face, causing you to hastily slap a hand over your mouth, muffling the gasp that jumps up your throat.

Eyes of gleaming jade widen inside dark, wrinkled sockets of a face so old and haggard, the skin hardly seems to fit properly around the skull it’s supposed to cover. A beard as white as the snow on the mountain, hangs from a stubborn chin and his bushy eyebrows shoot up an already well-creased forehead. Feathers of darkest onyx surround the collar of his tattered robes and somehow bristle and rumple in response to the horseman’s approach. Whoever this man is, you can’t help but believe that he exudes about as much power and authority as Death does, despite his ancient, gnarled hands and crooked teeth.

When he speaks, his voice is rasping and strident, well-befitting the man it belongs to. “I helped you once before, Horseman!” he snaps and points a long, clawed fingernail at Death accusingly, “Look at me now! How I curse that day. How I curse  _you_.” As he sweeps a hand through the air, you take note of the heavy manacles hanging from his skinny wrists and the chains they’re attached to that loop around his sides before they disappear up behind his hunched back. Distantly, you wonder what he did to earn the shackles, or if they’re nothing more than a choice of aesthetic.

Given the things you’ve seen so far, you honestly wouldn’t be surprised..

Drawing to a stop, Death squares his stance and holds his hand up in a motion you assume is meant to be sedative, though his voice is laced with a hidden threat. “Careful, Crowfather. I’m not here to put you out of your misery,” he warns, adding softly, “Not yet…”

‘The Crowfather’s’ hands slam aggressively on the arms of his throne and he pushes himself right out of the seat, lurching towards the top of the stone steps and glaring down at Death with his fearsome, green eyes.   
The moment he leaves the chair, the horseman’s arm jerks to the side and he splays his fingers out, palm facing you. Staring down at it, you blink at the unexpectedly protective action.

Above you, the old man’s sharp eyes spy you from behind Death’s bulk and a flicker of surprise shoots across his features. After a moment though, he masks the bewildered look and spares you little more than a derisive sniff as he continues, “I know why you have come. Your brother, the one called War. He’s been imprisoned by the Charred Council and awaits their judgement. For dooming the Earth…” He jabs a hand in your direction. “For  _her_  kind’s extinction. Why should I care about your brother’s fate?”

Death moves forward and rests one foot on the bottom step, leaving you to determine whether you’d rather move with him or maintain a ‘safe’ distance from the increasingly irate father of crows. “Because you know the truth,” he answers gently, “Your secrets can save him.”

The entire interaction is lost on you. It’s abundantly clear that these two have a long and complicated history, one that you daren’t ask about for fear of attracting their ire.

Suddenly, the old man throws his head back and cackles harshly. “The Council will condemn War!” he chortles, almost gleefully, “Strip him of power, let him rot in Oblivion….to hide the truth!” As he speaks, Death rolls his pale shoulders and begins to stalk deliberately up the staircase towards him. However, he soon stops, casting his orange eyes to the ground when he’s told, “My secrets cannot prove his innocence, Horseman.”

Shaking his head, Death agrees, “No…but they  _can_  help me to erase the crime..”

‘ _Erase the crime?_ ’ you wonder, cocking your head to the side, ‘ _What does **that**  mean?_’ Luckily for you, the Crowfather helpfully elaborates. A scrawny hand raises to stroke his beard and he meets your gaze for a second. “Bring Mankind back from extinction?!” He waves dismissively. “Bah. Madness!”

There it is again! That inkling trace of hope! The mention of restoring humanity and putting everything back the way it was before. Your breath catches in your throat and you don’t miss the way Death’s head tilts ever so slightly in your direction, silently reminding you to stay quiet. Reluctantly, you bite down on your tongue  _and_  the urge to ask this Crowfather if it’s even possible for Death to do as he claims.

Ascending a few more steps until he at last reaches the top of the stone staircase, your acquaintance gestures towards the older figure and chuckles mockingly, “If it’s madness, then who better to show me the way?”

For some, inane reason, your heart rate starts to creep up steadily the further Death moves from your side. Tears threaten to start pricking at the corner of your eyes along with a rising tide of fresh anxiety that claws insistently, deep in your intestines. Throwing aside your tentative caution of the crooked old man, you make the decision to scurry after the horseman, tripping clumsily up the steps until you skid to a halt behind him and peek around his bulging triceps to find the Crowfather blinking owlishly at you, as though he’s thrown off by your willingness to venture closer.

With his sunken eyes never leaving your face, he floats to the side, hardly seeming to touch the ground as he sweeps his fingers up through the air, provoking you to jump out of your skin when a swirling, black and purple vortex suddenly whirls into existence before you and Death. “Should a way exist,” the old one says, “you will find it here.”

“Woah,” you whisper, drawing away from the ominous portal and staring, wide-eyed at the strange and alien landscape shimmering beyond it.

A rolling valley of greens, golds and earthy browns stretches far into the distance. Great forests of towering trees sit just beyond the grassy meadow, a light mist curling between their trunks and coating each golden leaf in a layer of glistening dew that sparkles brilliantly in an early-morning sunrise.   
But by far the most spectacular sight is the impossibly tall, impossibly  _wide_  tree that looms over the valley like a skyscraper, soaring high above everything else with it’s branches stretching up until they disappear into a thin layer of wispy, white clouds.

You’re pulled from your enraptured trance when Death suddenly moves towards the portal, reaching out a tentative hand and softly murmuring, “The Tree of Life.”

Absently, he beckons you to follow.   
In lieu of any better ideas, you  _do_ , obediently ambling along behind him and casting a wary glance at the Crowfather.

All of a sudden, just as you’re mere feet from the sinister doorway and your beating heart skyrockets at the prospect of subjecting yourself to yet another gut-scrambling, inter-dimensional leap, the old one snaps his hand into a closed fist, banishing the portal before you can reach it.

“Hey! What?” you promptly exclaim at the same time as the horseman turns a murderous glare onto the Crowfather and growls, “Let us pass!”

“Not yet!” comes the rasping, frenzied reply, “That which you gave to me…” He trails off and slides his bony fingers down a chain that hangs from his scrawny neck, at the end of which dangles a glowing pendant, as green as the old one’s eyes. He holds it up for you to see, fixing the horseman with a demanding sneer. “You will take it back!”

Nervous, you peek up at Death when you hear him suck in a sharp breath beneath his mask, his pale body going rigid save for one hand that rises from his side to jab an accusing finger at the old man. “In exchange for its secrets, you agreed to keep the amulet.”

“Death?” you whimper as you start to notice the tangible aggression that drips from his tongue like poison. However, he shushes you roughly, eyeing the Crowfather who thumps the heels of his hands against a hairless skull, hissing in distress.

“No…The voices, they curse and threaten without end. They cry to return.” Suddenly, he lurches forward and shakes the amulet with insistent vigour. “You MUST destroy it!”

And Death, the indomitable horseman of the apocalypse and  _the_  most terrifying creature you’ve ever had to lay your mortal eyes on, bows his head and exhales a quiet, solemn sigh. “I…cannot,” he rumbles, eyes cast to the ground in a manner so unlike anything you’ve seen from him yet.   
In that moment, you could almost forget who and what he is.   
In that moment, you almost swear he looks  _human_.

The Crowfather’s lip curls and he scoffs. “You annihilated their flesh, why do you guard their souls!?”

For some time, the only sound that fills the chamber is that of your chattering teeth and the occasional whistle of cold wind. Then, Death’s hands ball into fists before he abruptly snatches his scythes from his belt and shoves you roughly backwards with an elbow. “Open the portal,” he seethes, teeth grit and nostrils flared.

“Woah, Death!” you exclaim, recovering quickly from the hard push and jogging around in front of him to hold your arms out placatingly, “Calm down!  _Whos’_  souls? What’s he talking about?”

But with his fiery glare currently trying to burn a hole through the Crowfather’s forehead, he simply uses the back of a strong wrist to once again hustle you aside with a little too much force. You hit the ground with a heavy ‘thud’ and bite back an ‘ouch!’, squeezing your eyes shut.   
Your coccyx is  _definitely_  going to hurt in the morning.   
Groaning, you blink painfully up at the horseman, who’s eyes dart rapidly between you and the old one. For a second, you think he’s about to apologise, but then the Crowfather speaks up, cackling cruelly as the feathers on his collar ruffle in response to an upsweep of static energy that raises the hair on your arms. “Why  _not_  tell her, Death?” he asks, “Why not tell her what you are?  _The things you’ve done_? Would she think so highly of you  _then_?”

 _“I never exactly thought very ‘highly’ of him to begin with.._ ” you grumble from the floor.

“Because,” the horseman bites, ignoring the unwelcome ache of guilt gnawing at his insides, “it’s none of her  _business_.”

The Old one sniffs and moves his head to address you. “You will soon find, human, that Death’s motives are often shrouded in darkness, obscured to all but himself.” He lowers his voice, drawing his lips back over yellowing teeth and furrowing his bushy eyebrows down at you. “ _You_  are here. You  _aren’t_  dead on Earth. That means the horseman saved you. But did you ever ask yourself,  _why_?”

“I-I don’t know!” you stammer truthfully, still sitting on the ground, “I haven’t really had the time to think about it!”

“You don’t think it was an act borne of  _compassion_ , do you? Pah! Mark me, young one, you would be wise not to trust him.”

Death’s sharp bark rings out over your attempted reply. “ _ **Enough**_!” he bellows, “Crowfather. I won’t ask you again. Open. The.  _Portal_!”

Now more unsure than ever, you bite down on your lip, hard and twitch your head, first in Death’s direction, then the Crowfather’s.

Far above your head, lightening strikes illuminate the sky and deep below you, the mountain moans and rumbles. It’s as if the whole realm is coming alive to the promise of an infringing battle.

The old one sweeps his arms out to each side and bows his head slowly, glowering darkly at the horseman. “You will not pass while I live.”

You gasp. This situation is quickly getting out of hand and - not for the first time - you realise just how out of your depth you really are. Stuck between two beings of intangible power with no way to stop it, or to escape. You feel like crying all over again. Helplessness is an ugly feeling.

The horseman blows air through his nose and closes his eyes for a split second, snapping them open again with renewed ferocity swirling within them.   
“So be it,” he huffs and readies his scythes. Unfortunately, he barely takes a step forward before he’s suddenly flung back through the air by a blast of crackling magic, shot straight from the Crowfather’s hands.

Shrieking, you fling yourself down, laying flat on your back as it passes you by, so close that you can see the tips of your wayward hair singe away.

“UM!” is all you can yelp.

Now on the other side of the cavern, Death shakes the dust out of his hair and picks himself up off the floor. The Crowfather sweeps past you to the top of the stairs. “Here, your brethren are trapped in eternal torment.” He gives the amulet another firm shake. “Do you wish to join them?” Twisting his neck around, he gestures down to where you’re struggling to your own feet. “What of her? Would you drag along an innocent child on your fruitless quest!? It would have been kinder if you’d left her to  **die**  on Earth, Horseman!”

You stand at last on shaky legs, shooting Death a questioning look. You don’t miss the way his eyes fail to find yours.

“And what of War?” the old one continues, “Would you kill your brother to save your precious balance?”

Even from this distance, you see Death’s hackles raise as he snarls hoarsely, “ **He is innocent**!”

“Are you so certain?”   
In a flash of blinding light, the Crowfather explodes - quite literally explodes - into a flock of flapping, squawking, shrieking crows and disappears from sight.

The cavern grows eerily silent, save for your hard breathing and scuffling feet on the stone floor. You tense, whipping about to try and locate him as your breath escapes you in little puffs of white cloud. “Death!” you call out, “ _Death_! Where did he go _?_! What should I  _do_?!”

The horseman’s sharp eyes scan the chamber, narrowed and searching. It only takes a few seconds, but he soon finds his quarry.   
From the shadows, a titanic figure emerges,  _much_  larger than the Crowfather and carrying a sword that’s both as long and wide as it’s wielder. The newcomer casually approaches Death, swinging the blade about in wide arcs, showing off the weapon’s reach and precision.   
“Remain where you are,” the horseman finally replies without taking his eyes off the old one’s dark illusion, “and stay  _out_  of my way.”

War - or at least, the pale imitation of War - suddenly breaks into a run, charging at the other with all the force of a freight train. Not really thinking, you reach out with a hand and call Death’s name, frantic. Though you needn’t have worried. For just as the dark, horrifyingly big assailant moves into range, the horseman strafes around behind it and strikes out fiercely at its vulnerable back, drawing a low grunt from it’s throat.

As he spins and whirls out of the dark Chaoseater’s reach, Death keeps a steady eye on your quivering form at the side of the chamber. Curiously enough, the Crowfather has elected to leave you well alone. ‘ _Interesting_ ,’ he thinks, leaping into the air to pass easily over a low sweep of ‘War’s’ blade, ‘ _And here I thought you didn’t have any morals, Old One.’_

Then again, perhaps the old coot has decided that you simply aren’t worth the expulsion of energy.

In the meantime, you’re staring at the two warring parties with your fingers wound tightly into your hair, eyes on stalks and brain a jumbled mess of thoughts. “What the Hell is going on?” you breathe softly to yourself, wincing every time those formidable scythes glance off the enormous sword. Helpless, you watch, dimly registering that you’re egging on the masked horseman, in spite of the fact that at this point, you really don’t know  _who_  to trust. For all you know, the  _Crowfather_  could be the good guy. His name certainly isn’t as inauspicious as ‘Death.’ Then again, it’s the  _horseman_  who has saved your life several times now….Well, technically you  _did_  save him first….. _But_  that was when you thought he was a fellow human in need.   
“Argh!” you blurt, frustrated.

Everything seemed so black and white before. Now?   
Now your whole world has gone grey.   
You  _still_  don’t know anything about what’s happened to your home. You’ve no idea what to do, who to turn to  _or_  how you’re going to get off this mountain if Death doesn’t manage to defeat this guy.

The pale rider and the shadow War launch themselves across the chamber at each other and collide with a tooth-rattling boom in the very centre, heaving their respective weapons into the other’s, each fighting relentlessly to gain the upper hand.

“C’mon,” you whisper under your breath, unaware that your fingernails have split the skin of your palms, “ _Come **on** , Death_.”

A swell of relief nearly sweeps you off your feet when the masked horseman finally knocks the sword aside, sending the bigger creature onto one knee and allowing him to leap over the back of it and try to slash it with his weapon.

However, just before he drives home a winning blow, ‘War’ turns his gauntlet to block Harvester’s blow, forcing Death to use his forward momentum and roll beneath the illusion’s arm, putting some distance between him and that wicked blade. He pauses, chest heaving as he risks a quick glance in your direction, feeling a pang of satisfaction at finding you followed his instruction of staying where you are, wringing your hands.

Opposite him, the Crowfather’s illusion rights itself and turns its heavily armoured bulk around to face him, readying it’s sword. Death lifts his own weapon when he hears you call, “Death?”   
He twitches his head over one shoulder, curious. “…Be careful!” you finish.   
The reaper only  _just_  manages to hold in a scoff. Then, bracing his feet against the cold ground, he pushes forwards into a steady charge and swings his scythe up behind him, whilst simultaneously, ‘War’ pitches straight for him, full tilt and brings the deadly sword into position, aimed to stab into Death’s sinewy gut.

You cover your eyes but lift a finger to peek out, only just daring to watch.

At the apex of their bullrush, the two titans move in near sync, throwing their weapons forward with a shout and jarring each other to a crunching halt with an impact that shakes the very foundations of the cavern. From your perspective, it’s impossible to tell who dealt the finishing blow. It seems that they’ve both been impaled on the ends of opposite blades and for a torturously long moment, neither of them move.

Then, at last, the larger one gives an almighty tremble and slumps forwards over Death’s scythe and you can at last take a juddering breath.  
In one, swift motion, the pale rider tightens his grip on the hilt and gives Harvester a firm yank, pulling it free of his victim’s abdomen. The large body crumples to the ground and dissolves in a puddle of oozing, viscous magic, from which fly another several dozen crows. Once the myriad of ebony wings disperses, the Crowfather himself is revealed, laying prone and gasping - somehow still alive - on the ground.

In an instant, you’re bounding down the stairs towards the grim horseman. You don’t get far before you skid to a stop and let out a shrill “NO!” as Death brings Harvester down onto the old one’s spine, spearing him all the way through his chest. Effortlessly, he lifts the limp figure - still stuck on the jagged blade - into the air, bringing him eye level with that fearsome, sunset glare.

The violence of the action gives you pause. “He-hey! Stop!” you stutter, ambling a little closer. The horseman ignores your approach in favour of clamping his hand over the Crowfather’s pallid face, pulling him free of the blade and spitting furiously, “Open up the portal!” Without even giving the Old one a chance to respond, he throws the scrawny body to the ground near your feet.

Choking on a wet gasp, the Crowfather collapses in a heap and as he does, the green amulet snaps free of the chain on his neck and skitters across the ground, landing between you and the agitated horseman.   
“Your secrets die with you….” Death says, then, more gently, he adds, “…old fool.”

Your head shakes slowly side to side. Suddenly, you remember why you’d been so scared of Death in the first place. Frightened anger rears its ugly head and you round on him, eyes flashing, indignant. “Why did you  _do_  that?!” you shout accusingly, dropping to kneel by the downed man’s shoulder, one hand hovering shakily over the black feathers of his robe which is now seeped in the same dark blood that oozes in rivulets from his mouth and nostrils. “He was already down! You didn’t need to  **kill** him!”

Just then, a wet, hacking chuckle draws your wild gaze down to the man on the ground, who weakly raises his head, pulling those thin lips back into an eerie grimace. His fluttering eyes latch onto Death’s and he gives the horseman a twisted smile. “ _My_ secrets,” the old one whispers at him weakly, dropping his gaze to the amulet, “…but not  _yours_ ….”

Frowning, you follow his line of sight and freeze upon seeing the glowing amulet rattling around on the stone floor. Just then, a crack appears in the side of it and a high pitched screeching sound begins to emanate from within it, a cacophony of ghostly voices wailing through the gap. And then, without warning, the whole thing shatters and a dozen small, sharp pieces of what look like broken crystal levitate in place for a brief moment before they suddenly shoot through the air, right towards the stunned horseman.

“Look out!” you warn. But you know you’re already  _far_  too late. Every single shard hits him squarely in the chest and imbeds itself beneath his skin. Death’s eyes snap up to meet yours and you note that he looks just as confused as you  _feel_. You jump when he cries out suddenly, voiced strained and tight. The muscle-bound horseman - until now, daunting, unassailable and nigh untouchable - curls in on himself protectively and sinks to his knees before collapsing entirely onto his back, wretched agony evident in the way his eyes are screwed shut. To your dismay, his hands go limp and fall with a ‘thunk’ against the ground where he lays, unmoving.

“Death!” you squeak, pushing yourself to your feet and staggering over to his body.   
About halfway to him, your vision starts to swim, so you blink furiously to clear it, though it does you no good.   
“Huh?” Your voice sounds so slurred and far away. “Whus happennhng…”   
Just as you reach the horseman, darkness clouds the edges of your mind and no amount of head shaking will get it to go away.

Eyes rolling up into the back of your head, you’re unconscious before you trip over your own feet and fall heavily onto Death’s chest, laying with an arm draped over his waist and your face smushed up against his cold, protruding ribcage.

The last thing you hear before you lose yourself to darkness is the cawing of countless crows, sounding out an operatic requiem for their fallen father.


	4. Monachopsis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Minds can be cruel. You saw things back on Earth you wish you hadn’t. Bodies react in ways we’d rather they didn’t and Death asks a question he probably could have worded better.  
> On the bright side, you finally meet a friendly face.

You don’t remember why you bolted upright in bed, clutching your heart and blanket in separate hands. You can’t recall the reason your heart jackhammers inside your ribcage, threatening to burst loose and make a run for freedom. 

All you know is that you’re suddenly, inexplicably back in your own, warm bed, sitting on top of a soft duvet with your legs swung over the side and your feet planted on the carpet. Sluggishly, you swivel your head from left to right, taking in your surroundings. 

“It…it can’t be,” you breathe, your tentative heart soaring upon discovering that, yes. Those are  _your_  walls,  _your_  windows and door,  _your_  pillows. 

You belt out a breathy laugh and rub a shaking pair of hands down your drawn face.   
_‘I’m back! Not a white mask in sight! No gleaming red eyes or old men who turn into crows!’_

Just home….

Well…Home  _and_  the strange, rhythmic ‘ _ba dum….’ ‘ba dum….’ ‘ba dum._ …’ that seems to emanate from the very walls and sends a tremor through your skull with every beat. 

You listen to it for a moment, musing on the fact that you’ve never noticed such a thing in all the time you’ve lived here.

‘…Oh well!’ you think cheerfully, pushing yourself up from the bed - 

\- Only to find yourself sitting at the kitchen table, your father opposite with his nose buried in the local newspaper and a hand wrapped snugly around a steaming mug of coffee. “Dad!” you chirp, throwing your arms up excitedly, conveniently glossing over the impossibility of clipping from your room to the kitchen in the blink of an eye.

Through the haze of your elation, your brain registers that you can’t smell the coffee granules. Usually, you can always smell the fresh pot he’s made early in the morning before he leaves for work, even from your bedroom. 

“Oh  _well_ ,’ you beam again, giving yet another mental shrug and deciding that it isn’t an important detail. In fact, nothing much matters at this moment because your father is alive and well and he’s sitting in his usual spot at the table whilst your mother materialises beside you, sliding a gentle hand over your shoulder and giving it a squeeze. 

“Mum! Oh, I’m  _so_  glad you guys are okay!” you gush, throwing your arms around her waist, “I had the most stressful dream last night, like you wouldn’t believe!”

Neither of your parents decide to respond to that. Instead, it would seem they would prefer to stare at you, unblinking, eyes hard and mouths pulled into painful grins. 

Hesitantly, your own smile begins to waver. 

A sharp rapping abruptly has your gaze darting towards the kitchen window, where a large, black shape has perched itself on the sill outside.   
Swallowing, you frown at your parents as you get up and approach the window with slow, deliberate footsteps. When you draw closer, the dark shape turns into the recognisable silhouette of a bird; a crow to be precise. The sight of it makes your heart plummet down to your feet. It taps it’s beak against the glass in perfect synchronisation with the incessant thudding that pounds in your ears. “What?…” you whisper, trembling and desperate, desperate for this all to be real and not what you’re afraid it’s becoming. 

The crow cocks its head to the side and regards you with one, glossy black eye. Then, giving off a deafening screech, it beats its wings and takes to the air. Your eyes bleakly follow it as it soars over a city on fire. 

Burning buildings topple under a barrage of falling meteors. Skeletons - stripped of their flesh by bouts of searing heat - litter the roads, remnants of skin barely clinging to the bones and suddenly, in the reflection of the window, you catch sight of a pair of grinning skulls. 

Dread, cold and cruel punctures through the blanket of warmth that had so far surrounded you, and though you don’t  _feel_  cold, you can see goosebumps prickling down your arms. You don’t turn around, not because you don’t want to, but because you just… _can’t_. 

Throat clogged by thick misery -  _or is it rage?_  - you force down a warbled sigh, softly choking, “This isn’t fair.” 

 Sometimes, there will come a moment in dreams where the dreamer realises that what they’re seeing isn’t real. When this happens, the illusion is typically shattered, throwing them back into the realm of waking.   
But this time,  _you_  aren’t one of those lucky people. You are among the unfortunate ones who’ve lost control of their treacherous minds and find themselves trapped. 

You don’t remember turning, yet somehow, one moment you’re staring sadly out at the broken landscape beyond the kitchen window and the next, you’re standing before your parents, mere inches from their dead, emaciated faces. 

They moan, jaws stretching wide open with flimsy strands of greying hair clinging weakly to the remains of what little skin has managed to keep its hold.   
“This is  _not_   _fair_!” you sob again as fat, hot tears squeeze out from between your squinted eyelids. With your feet rooted to the spot, you begin to shake violently, only able to use your arms to slap theirs away when they reach up with exposed finger bones and try to claw at your face. “Stop it!” Get off! I-I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”   
Guilt can still be felt in dreams.   
“I know! I should have come back for you!” 

The rhythmic thumps grow louder and louder still, rattling your burning brain whilst you struggle, screaming and crying against the ghosts of your parents. “This is a dream,” you manage to command yourself, “Wake up. Wake.  ** _Up_**!” At your uproarious shout, colours start blurring together, swirling in on each other until everything is out of focus and you can no longer see the haunting visages that roar at you. Your voice grows quieter and lower, “wake up…” you beg, “please…..” 

Blackness blooms in the centre of your eyes and spreads out to cover the whole world. 

And still, you fight..

 “Please….wa-”

——

“- ke up, little one.”

Something gently nudges your arm and you burst upright, eyes snapping open and a breathless gasp of “ _ **DAD**_!?” blurts from your chapped lips before you can swallow it back. 

The first thing you notice is that you’re outside somewhere. There’s a breeze hitting your face and you can see clouds painting the sky a blessed, beautiful grey overhead. A far cry from the bleeding reds and oranges you remember from earth.   
The second thing; that you’re much,  _much_  warmer than you were before and you can _smell_ again. A forest - pine, you think - and the pleasant scent of faint bonfire smoke.   
It was all a dream then? Disappointment settles heavily over your chest and you flop back with a sigh onto a soft surface.  
Waking…It just feels like you’ve been ripped away from home _twice_. 

That’s when the headache suddenly flares to the forefront of your attention. A river of liquid fire unexpectedly sears across the left side of your forehead and settles there, curling in throbbing circles directly above your eye. 

Gritting your teeth, you tenderly prod the area and wince when pain lances to the back of your skull at the touch.

Through the agony, you realise that you can still hear the dull thudding from your dream, except  _here_  it feels as if its coming from somewhere right next to your head. Like the beat of some kind of enormous…

....thundering…

.... _heart_?

The surface you’re laying on abruptly shifts, pulling a startled yelp from your lips and causing you to dig your nails into a thick, silky fabric underneath your hands. ‘ _This isn’t my duvet!?_ ’ is all your brain can helpfully shriek. 

“Steady there, lass,” a strange voice booms overhead,  “it was nothing more than a bad dream. You’re safe now.” 

Chest heaving and limbs locked tight, you force your head to roll up, seeking out the source of the strong, albeit  _kind_  tone. 

Tired eyes meet twin pools of misty grey, beset by a tangled myriad of plummetless lines that deepen even further when those heavy-lidded peepers crinkle at the sides, pushed up by a soft smile. 

The amicable reassurance that shines earnestly from their depths would work wonders at calming you down….that is, if the face that looms over you didn’t belong to an absolute titan of a man.   
You’d thought  _Death_  had been gigantic but  **this**  guy makes him look lilliputian! 

If nothing else, at least this new creature’s size explains the drumfire that continues to thud beside your head and sends juddering quakes through your comparably tiny body. 

Throat too hoarse to scream, you clutch harder to the sleeve below you and gulp audibly, mouth falling open like a petrified goldfish, unable to tear your glassy eyes off his steady gaze.   
“Oh Christ,” you whimper, recalling every single fairy tale you’d ever read about giants who devour wayward humans as a light snack, “God, give me a  _break_!”

From what little you can gather, you’re laying on a giant’s arm, tucked securely into the crook of an elbow and held against his mountainous expanse of chest. Robes of a rich, cobalt blue hang just a foot or so above his leather boots and each long sleeve is trimmed with a thick, white fur, the same colour as his immense beard that stretches all the way down to his pelvis and tapers off to a soft point at the end of an expertly-wound plait. 

The giant wears an armoured headdress of golden metal, sporting two blunt prongs which sweep up into the air on either side of his head. 

A veritable thicket of an eyebrow raises slowly when you feebly attempt to sit up again. However, the second you do, a finger that’s almost wider than you are raises into view and the tip of it presses squarely on your chest, pinning you back down. 

“No!  _Stop_!” Frantically, you claw at his thick, wrinkly hide and kick your legs uselessly in an attempt to dislodge yourself. “Put me  _DOWN_!” 

The old giant’s brow dips as a disapproving rumbles travels up his throat and comes out in a hum. “Calm yourself, little human” he reprimands you gently, “the  _horseman_ may be able to travel between realms without so much as a scratch, but  _your_  body is far more delicate.”

When you continue to valiantly fight him off, he clears his throat and nods towards your face. “You’re  _bleeding_ , youngling.”

As if on cue, you become aware of a strange tickle slowly making its way down the side of your face, growing colder as it travels away from your nose.

In a knee-jerk reaction, your hand flies up and you dab at the juncture between your lips and nostrils, pulling away after a moment to find sticky blood colouring your fingertips red.

Now, as far as you were aware, haemophobia has never been a prevalent issue in your life. Sure, it’s usually disconcerting to see your own blood on the outside of your body, but you’ve never really made a fuss about it before…

You stare, dry-mouthed and trembling at your hand while the pulsing ache behind your eyes builds to an excruciating climax.

There isn’t a second of warning before your mind is pelted with an onslaught of fresh memories. You can’t stop them, you can only look up past your fingers as images flash in front of your eyes like a bad film reel, your pupils blown wide and mouth hanging slightly agape.   
You see your workplace colleagues, the people you’d come to call friends laying crushed underneath huge chunks of fallen building, their eyes glassy and blank. Even now, you can recall their piercing cries for help.   
All of them - every single one - died scared.

You see the church and the man who’s gun you’d found. He’s fixed his watery, unseeing stare on you as little rivulets of blood ooze steadily from the gaping hole in the side of his head.   
Then, with a blink, he becomes the children in the church, their haunting screams for dead mothers ring hellishly in your ears. Soon, they too fade into darkness.

At last, the face of the kind priest bleeds into view.

Nausea squirms in your guts as your mind’s eye watches him open his mouth and shout something at you that you can’t hear. The pain in your head suddenly thrums insistently, growing and growing until you can no longer bear the pain, so your lungs expel an agonised wail that tears at the sides of your throat.

“ _Do something_ ,” a faraway voice, familiar and gruff barks nearby. Another voice answers the first, much closer this time. “ _Hold on…”_

There’s a loud  **SNAP**!

….And just like that, the fire in your skull is extinguished and the priest’s face blurs behind your prickling tears as a light blooms around his head, forcing you to squint against its brightness. With your stomach still churning, you suck in a steadying breath and call out to the fading figure. “F…father?” you groan, raising a shaky hand to shield your eyes.

Clarity dribbles through your hazy head and the face above snaps back into sharp focus with a few more blinks until you’re no longer seeing the weary priest, but the giant with kindly eyes, gazing down at you from beneath his heavily shadowed brow. When he realises that you’ve finally stopped writhing about, the bushy beard surrounding his mouth twitches, pulled up by a smile. “I’m afraid not,” he chuckles warmly, “Though I’m sure you’d much rather I was, hmm?”

Too queasy to respond, you simply grimace and cover your eyes with a miserable groan.

——————-

Down on the ground, the pale visage of Death watches as the small girl in the maker’s arms moans and hides her face.

Later, he’d avidly deny that your bloodied nose and nightmare-induced whimpers had worried him enough to lose his cool and demand that the old one help.

“What did you do?” he queries, at last tearing his mind off you.   
The bearded giant – Eideard – releases a long gust of air from his nostrils.   
‘ _He’s not even trying to hide his relief._ ’ Distantly, the horseman wonders what it must be like to wear one’s emotions so openly.

“Humans and magic do not often mix,” Eideard explains, smiling fondly at your scrunched up face, “and she really is so small, I didn’t want to put her under any more strain. It was as simple a healing spell as I could manage.”

“How magnanimous of you.”

“ _Guh_ …guys?”

Their attention is drawn back to you and they blink concurrently, curious to find that you’ve manoeuvred yourself so that you’re laying on your stomach with your upper body draped over the giant’s wrist, dirty hair cascading around your downturned face. “Please can you put me down? I…I think I’m gonna be sick..”

Even with the threat of a human emptying it’s stomach all over him, Eideard is still hesitant. “Are you sure?” he asks, skeptical about the current sturdiness of your legs.

“Oh, just let her go, Old One,” the horseman huffs, “You’re frightening her.”   
He doesn’t bother to suppress a snort at the maker’s highly affronted glare. Regardless - to the delight of your roiling insides - he bends to a knee and allows you to swing your feet over his arm, sliding to the ground where you stand on wobbly legs.   
Sadly, a wave of dizziness sends you crashing onto your hands and knees just moments later, and before you can prepare yourself, a hot, viscous spurt of fluid suddenly rushes out from the pit of your stomach and leaves a stinging burn all the way up your oesophagus. Fortunately – or not, as the case may be – you’re heaving on an empty stomach. Clear, sticky bile comes bursting out of your mouth and spills onto the wispy grass below, spattering against the sleeves of your jumper.

The two beings at either side of you share a grimace. In the end, it’s Death who slowly ventures closer. “Are you alright?” he murmurs.

Crouched, shaking on the ground, you suck in breath after breath and swallow around the rancid, acrid taste in your mouth. After a minute or two, you inhale deeply through your nose and let it out in a long, exasperated sigh.   
“Am I alright…” you echo bitterly, spitting the last of the bile from your mouth as you rattle your way back onto your feet and wipe away the blood from your nose. “Am I…. _alright_?” With all the deliberate slowness of a glacier, you turn around to fix him with one of your most cutting glares. Caught off guard, Death draws his head back as you stalk right up to his chest, jutting your chin out at him defiantly.   
Gone is all the fear and dread. You’re too tired, too hungry and too beaten down to worry about the alarmingly sharp scythes that are hanging from his belt loops. 

“Are you serious!? What kind of question is that? Put yourself in  _my_  shoes. I have…  _NO_ idea what’s going on. One minute, I’m at work, wondering what I’ll have for lunch..Next thing I know, I’m being chased through the streets of my city by these..these  **things**  straight out of a nightmare!” You card your hands through your hair and let out a short, hysterical giggle. “I’m not on  _Earth_  anymore! You know, when I woke up this morning and went to work, I didn’t even get to say goodbye to my parents because I was running late!”

Perhaps if Death had understood the significance of a ‘goodbye’ in human culture, he wouldn’t have snorted so disdainfully. As soon as he does, your hands ball into fists, nails digging painfully into the skin of your palms and you curl your lips up over your teeth, gnashing them in a wild display of aggression. “SHUT!  _UP_!”

And Death – the Eldest Horseman. Kinslayer and Executioner, finding himself rendered speechless by the unmitigated rage and fearlessness that explodes out of your mouth – does indeed, shut up.

A cool, autumnal breeze kicks up some of the fallen leaves that lay scattered around the glade, sending them twirling and spinning in their own, personal dance. Overhead, the leaves still attached to their tree branches tremble excitedly until one of their number – small, golden and frayed at the edge – snaps loose, pulled free by the gracious wind. It floats prettily down towards the group of mismatched creatures on the ground. Eideard watches it flutter past his nose and drift over to you where it manages to catch itself in your tousled locks, tangled up within strands of dirty, blood-caked hair. The maker’s discerning hum is so low, even at his size, you can’t hear it over the whispering wind. 

You’re so busy swiping angrily at the tears that trickle down your cheeks, you don’t even notice it’s there. “This isn’t  _funny_!” you sob, biting your bottom lip to keep it from quivering, “My mum and dad are…are…Everyone is  _gone_!” Choking on a shuddering breath, you squeeze your eyes shut and hunch your shoulders, bending your head to face the ground. 

“Death, I want so  _badly_ for this to be a dream. For me to wake up in my bed at home – for  _real_  this time – and  _not_ be standing here, on a whole other world with you and the - the flipping BFG over there!…No offence,” you timidly call back to the maker.

 

Eyes twinkling with amusement, he simply bows his head and gestures for you to carry on.

After regaining a little composure and forcing the image of your parents’ frightened, confused and helpless faces from your mind, you let out a wet breath. “So, no. To answer your question….” you whisper tiredly, “No, I’m  _not_  okay.”

The horseman remains stock still as you finally coax your head up to look at him, playing with the hem of your sleeves. 

A flicker of green light on Death’s broad chest catches your eye. “Huh?” Wiping your eyes, you raise your head a little further and let it linger on his pallid skin. Suddenly, you blink the tears from your eyes and gasp softly at the sight in front of you.   
Green shards of shining crystal are imbedded deep in the horseman’s right pectoral - each one is the same material that had made up the amulet that hung from the Crowfather’s neck. Every now and then, small wisps of green smoke emerge in the guise of ghostly faces before they’re dispersed to the wind.

Sniffing, you wipe your eyes and reach out with a hesitant hand, anger nearly forgotten, pushed aside by a surge of concern. Your fingertips lightly trace the fraying skin around one of the larger wounds. “But  _that_  looks like it hurts,” you croak, “A-are  _you_  alight?”

Death swallows, adams apple bobbing noticeably under your inspection. Unaccustomed to having someone fret over his wellbeing, he roughly clears his throat and shifts backwards out of your reach. Turning his head to one side, he grumbles “It’s nothing.”

“A-are you sure?” 

The horseman’s eyes swivel down to stare at you incredulous. In a bid to distract you from worrying about his wound - his teeth grind together upon noting that you haven’t taken your eyes off it - Death grumbles something under his breath, consciously placing a hand over the shattered remains of his amulet. “On the mountain,” he starts, drawing your gaze back to his, “I told you that I would answer your questions when we were somewhere a bit safer, did I not?” 

A few moments pass where you simply gape at him. But then, just as he opens his mouth to continue, your face transforms from worry and bleakness to something far more hopeful.   
Happy suits your face more than sad. It’s a good look for you, he admits privately. 

“Oh! Yes! Yes, you did!” 

He doesn’t bother to suppress his amused huff at the distractibility of humans. “So,” he cocks a hip and sweeps a large hand through the air before returning it to his belt, “What would you like to know?”

Scrubbing at your eyes with a sleeve and smudging your mascara even further, you nod exuberantly. “Okay, yeah…Alright. First question, what are you?”

Exasperated, his eyes roll up to the sky. “I’ve  _told_  you this. I am Death. A horseman.”

“Right,” you say, pursing your lips, “But I mean…what  _species_  are you? You almost look human! Like, were you a man who was made into a horseman by God?”

A bark of sharp laughter bursts out from beneath the mask and he throws his head back. Even Eideard coughs into his fist to disguise a hearty chuckle. Embarrassed, you fold your arms and mumble defensively, “Well. I wouldn’t  _know_ , would I?”

“Ha! No, no. I suppose not..” Composing himself, he manages to add, “I’m Nephilim. They are –  _were_  – an ancient race, born from the ashes of angels and demons alike.”

Unfortunately for him, you took notice of the way he corrected himself and switched to the past tense. Curious, you cock your head and lift a brow. “Were?”

Death freezes, his eyes blown open wide, realising that he’d been caught. “Ah…They’re gone,” he answers gruffly, shrugging one shoulder to play off nonchalance, “Well…. Save for my siblings and I.”  

“ _All_  of them?”

The horseman nods firmly, his lips pressed into a thin line.

“Oh…”   
Suddenly, you feel terribly sheepish.

Here you are kicking up a fuss and you hadn’t even considered that you might not be the only one who’d lost something. That’s often the way though. In the wake of our own grief, its easy to forget the suffering of others until ours has passed. You chew on your lip and absently rub at the back of your neck. “Hey, uh…Look. I’m sorry-”

“Don’t be,” he interrupts snappishly, “They don’t deserve your pity.”

When he jerks his head to the side and doesn’t elaborate further, you swallow and open your mouth to ask why, but just then, the giant behind you coughs and ambles forwards, choosing not to comment when you swivel around and back a few, wary steps away from him. 

“If I may?” He glances at Death, who averts his gaze and offers silent permission with a dismissive shrug. Having received the horseman’s quiet consent, he launches into a speech. “The Nephilim were a cruel and depraved race. Brilliant, certainly. But world destroyers…Slayers of entire species…” The old giant’s hands gesticulate elegantly, his voice low and warm. Everything about him commands your attention. Nervously, you throw a quick look over your shoulder at the eerily silent horseman as he continues, “Death here grew tired of the incessant slaughter. He and the others – War, Strife and Fury – broke off and aligned themselves with the Charred Council, who granted them immense power in exchange for their… _ah_ …loyalty. When the Nephilim threatened Eden and the humans who had only just come to call it home, Death led the charge to defend it.”

“He…did?” Frowning softly, you turn to face the reaper once more, garnering no information from his closed-off body language, nor from the face hidden beneath that pale mask.

Eideard nods. “Mm. To protect the balance, the four and an elite group of angels, fought a battle that - to this day - is remembered as one of the bloodiest for millennia. The Nephilim were eradicated and Eden was saved.”

Fiddling with the sleeves of your jumper, you stare up at Death and whisper, “You killed your whole species…to save mine?”

“We made the decision to curb our brethren’s bloodlust  _long_  before humans came onto the scene but….essentially, yes,” Death replies, “Their destruction was necessary. To protect Eden…and to secure the future of all of Creation. They would not have stopped until they had a world to call their own.”

His eyes catch sight of the golden leaf, still fluttering about in your hair. He watches it from under heavy lids whilst you nod slowly, piecing together the information.

“So…you’re…you’re one of the good guys then?”

The horseman blinks so hard, colourful sparks flash in his field of vision and he tears his gaze off the leaf to squint down at you. “Don’t be so naïve,” he snaps, “you’ve no idea the things I’ve done. You think you were afraid of me before? You wouldn’t even be standing here if you knew even a fraction of what I’ve had to do.” His sneer falls when you duck your head and gulp loudly, so he softens his tone, sighing, “Don’t mark me a good man, little human. You know not what you say.”

“Well…” you stick your lips out, the ghost of a smile gracing your pretty face – Hold on. 

Since when had he started using  _nice_  adjectives to remark on your appearance.

 Apparently not having noticed his wide-eyed stare, you scratch absently at your nose. “You don’t strike me as a bad guy.”

 The horseman’s brow dips in a frown, though before he can protest, you quickly pipe up, “You saved me before, from that ice skeleton, on the mountain? A-and you stopped me from getting ripped to pieces by those demons…back on….on Earth.” Lowering your head, you scrunch up your nose and peer up at him through wet lashes, still glistening with the remnants of tears. “That’s another question I’ve been meaning to ask you…”

Even though he knew it was coming, Death still hadn’t managed to nail down an exact response.

“Why did you take me away from home? I mean, of all the humans you could have rescued, why’d you grab me?”

Behind you, one of Eideard’s snowy eyebrows raises interestedly, already wondering the same thing.

To avoid your big, shimmering,  _annoyingly_  innocent gaze, the pale rider focuses back on the leaf in your hair and wracks his brain for the right words. He doesn’t feel as though he knows you well enough to tell you that, for just a moment, seeing you charge headfirst into a pack of bloodthirsty, ravenous demons whose strength and weapons far exceeded your own, he was reminded wholly of his youngest brother, War. Your eyes wild and hair blasted back from the speed of your mad dash, teeth bared, jaw stretched wide – you were the only human he’d seen that day who ran  _to_  the danger, not from it.

In that brief window of time, he’d made the split-second decision to pull you from your dying world. If he were telling the truth, he’d have pulled every human out of it, if given the opportunity. They weren’t supposed to die, not like that. Not like cattle.   
He’d saved you because you were within reach, you tried to save him first and because the concept of leaving an innocent to die when he could do something about it…just didn’t sit right with him.

“Tell me,” he suddenly declares “When you ran out of that church and came to my side, what were you thinking.”

Flustered, you flinch back as your cheeks turn pink. “I-To be honest, I wasn’t thinking..not really. I thought you were another human,” you admit, “I couldn’t see you through the smoke and just assumed you were a nutcase who thought he could be a hero.”

“Is that what you were trying to do?” he asks, “be a  _hero_?”

Shame-faced, you look down at your shoes, scuffing the toes into the grass. “God, no. I’m not brave enough to be one. Too dumb as well.”

Eideard’s lips part around a silent gasp, disquieted that someone so young could say something so self-deprecating.

“But you tried to help me anyway,” Death coaxes, ducking his head to catch your eye, “Why?”

Offering him a shrug, you fill your cheeks with air, then blow it noisily past your lips, “I don’t know. I guess, I just..” You pause, finally managing to hold his burning stare for a few seconds. “I just wanted to help.”

And there, Death smiles under his mask, satisfied as he nods and folds his arms, waiting for you to connect the relevance of this conversation. Understanding finally dawns on your face after a minute or two of quiet contemplation. “You’re saying, y _ou_ …just wanted to help  _me?_ ”

Another nod and you blink up at him in awe, a hesitant smile twitching the edge of your mouth. “Huh…Then..thanks.” Bolder now, you huff out a quick laugh and shoot him a playful look. “You know, this isn’t exactly helping your whole, 'I’m not a good person’ shtick.”

His face falls flat, smile disappearing in a second. You can tell by the way his eyes are no longer lifted in the corners. “Did you have any more questions?”

“Oh yeah! Okay, um. So, the apocalypse…” Gesticulating wildly with your hands, you stick out your bottom lip and ask, “..What the Hell is that about?”

A troubled sigh escapes the maker at your mention of it and even Death grimaces, shaking his head slowly from side to side. “It was never supposed to happen. Not this soon.”

“But…What? It  _was_  supposed to happen. Eventually?”

Before the horseman can reply, Eideard chips in, stomping over to stand next to you and making the ground shudder with each, heavy footstep. “You must understand, little one. Humanity is still such a young species – Why, I was already an old man when your ancestors first appeared.” He smiles down at you and you can’t help but offer him a tiny one of your own in return. You’re really starting to feel a lot more relaxed around the soft-spoken giant.

But soon enough, his smile fades, face turning solemn and he sighs resolutely. “Someone began the apocalypse prematurely – centuries before your kind was strong enough – and all evidence points to Death’s brother, War, being at the heart of it.”

“He is innocent!” the horseman snarls viciously.

“I never said he was not.”

The two of them engage in an intense staring contest. One with eyes of fire and the other with wise patience as fathomless as an ocean. For a time, you observe them cautiously, gaze darting between the horseman and the giant as though you’re expecting a fight to break out at any moment. Given Death’s track record, you wouldn’t put it past him to attack another old man for the tiniest offence.

Unwilling to see any more bloodshed – at least for the day – you aim to distract him, hoping that he won’t chop your head off for asking. “How’d you know for sure?”

Those ferocious eyes are on your in an instant. “Because he is my brother. I know him and trust me,  _he_  is not the one responsible for the end of your world.”

Sluggishly, your brows knit together until they all but meet in the centre of your forehead whilst you closely scrutinise the horseman’s eyes. He’s well aware that you’re searching for some semblance of a lie, so he keeps his expression as steady and sure as a statue, matching your unwavering gaze without even a blink.

Several seconds pass by in silence. Then, like a flipped switch, your face brightens again, lighting up with an amicable – albeit tired – grin. “Alright then.”

Struck by the blunt simplicity of your statement, Death blinks. “I…What?” Its a very rare thing that the sharp-tongued horseman is rendered speechless but he’d truly expected a different reaction. An accusation, perhaps. A scoff or a roll of your eyes. Not this eager acceptance. “That was fast,” he says carefully, “I was afraid I’d have to  _convince_  you.”

“Hey, if you say he’s innocent, then he’s innocent in my books too.”

“ _Really_?” Death pushes his chest out and folds his arms across it, skepticism dripping from his lips, “And you’re not just saying that because you’re afraid of what I’ll do to you if you don’t?”

Shoving a lock of hair behind your ear, you hum, “Sure, that probably comes into it on a subconscious level-”

“I appreciate your honesty.”

“- but despite how totally freaky and sinister and downright  _terrifying_  you are-”

“Actually, I think I’d prefer a little  _less_  honesty.”

“- I reckon you’re telling the truth.”

“I-…Oh..” The reaper’s eyes dart around the glade, as if he’s hoping the trees will provide him with a better reply than, 'oh.’ He’s somewhat offended when they don’t.

He’d met you a little over one Earth day ago. You’re still – to some extent – afraid of him. And yet, you’re already displaying a staggering degree of trust. Astounding. Here is a young human who’d just been told that her world, her friends, her home and her family have all been destroyed and the only name she has to place the blame on is that of his brother’s.

But you….don’t.

Your credulous nature would be endearing if he didn’t think it would get you killed.

A loud sniff jolts Death from his thoughts, “I have one more question,” you prod, “For now, at least. I…uh. I think my adrenaline is starting to wear off.”   
Sure enough, when Eideard and the horseman look down, they can see just how much your legs are straining to keep your upright.   
Swallowing past an uncomfortable lump, you lift a hand to massage the back of your neck and address both Death and the giant. “So…What’s the plan?”

“Long term, or short?” the former asks.

“Hmmm…Both?”

He sighs, dropping his sinewy arms to the side. “Fine. Long term – We get to the Tree of Life, bring humanity back from extinction and clear my brother’s name.”

As he speaks, he reaches forward at last and plucks the leaf out of your hair. You freeze when his hand moves, only relaxing as he retrieves it and holds up a golden, fluttering leaf between his thumb and index finger, twiddling it about lazily.

“O-ohhkay?” you gulp, “Sounds easy enough.”

“It’s not, I’m afraid.” This time, Eideard chimes in. “As is often the case.”   
Stretching your neck back, you grant him your attention, wincing when he thumps his chest with a fist and erupts into a series of hacking coughs. Once he’s gathered himself, he leans heavily on his staff, and huffs, “As I’ve told the horseman, the way is barred by Corruption.”

“Corruption?”

“It’s a foul, evil thing. A disease that spreads across our lands and takes the lives of our people.”

“Like a plague?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” Death interjects, “Though from what i’ve seen, it doesn’t exactly ‘ _kill_ ’ those it has claimed.”

Eideard’s lips twist. “Not conventionally, no. It is infects everything, constructs, animals…my fellow makers. Then it taints their minds, turning them into dark shadows of their former selves. They feel nothing. No love. No hope or kindness. Nothing but hate and malice…” Sorrow tugs your heartstrings as his mighty shoulders sag under the weight of his sigh. “And yet, it never gets any easier to…bring them peace.”

A pang of empathy slugs you right in the jaw as you take in the withered crease of his brow. 

Looking at the old giant now, you have to wonder what on  _Earth_  you’d ever been afraid of in the first place.  
 Sure, he’s big -  _very_  big - and he positively  _radiates_  omnipotence, regardless of his wizened, ancient exterior. ’ _But he hasn’t done anything to hurt me,_ ’ you rationalise, ‘ _and my head **is**  feeling a lot better…thanks to him.._.’   
Biting down on your trepidation, you take a deep breath and sidle up to him. 

The old one’s breath catches in his throat at the sensation of a tiny hand pressing against his knuckle. Eyes wide, he peers down to see you stroking your fingers hesitantly over the wrinkled skin on the back of his hand.   
In all his years, Eideard has never once been privy to the incredible, cognitive ability of an empathetic human. They’re the creatures that he and his people have had the least interaction with and as such, most makers find them strange and fascinating, especially their innate capacity for feeling  _with_  others, even those outside their own species. 

Angels, demons and undead all lack the same kind of emotive dexterity. So do makers, to some extent. And yet, here he is, witnessing a human - who doesn’t even know his name - trying to comfort, to forge a connection the best way she knows how. Through physical contact. 

The tired old heart in his chest swells, contented. 

You remain as you are for a few seconds longer, returning his warm look with a shy squeeze of your hand. 

“So, um…Ahem. What was the short term plan?” you stumble, pulling your fingers off him when his fond stare starts to become a bit awkward.  
Death pauses to allow Dust to flutter down from the branch of a nearby tree and land clumsily on his shoulder, smirking at the glare you toss the bird’s way. “Yes. Short term-” He taps his finger on the chin of his mask in thought. He knows that you need the basics. Sleep, food and water. But, truth be told, he’s somewhat reluctant to ask for the makers’ help. However, he’ll have to swallow his condescension and accept it if he wants to keep you alive.

The horseman grumbles bitterly, “Eideard?” 

Understanding his unspoken concern, the maker runs a hand down the length of his thick beard, humming resonantly for a moment and considering you carefully. “The first thing you must do is rest. Everything else can come after. Come, you’ve been through quite enough for one day.” 

With that, he beckons you and the horseman to follow after him while he turns around, making his way towards what looks to be a monumental, hollowed-out tree trunk that must have been uprooted centuries ago. Death’s hand pushes into your back, prompting you to start forwards, dragging your feet as you trundle after the giant. He only takes a few, leisurely steps before stopping in his tracks and twisting his body about to look down at you, a look of remorse flitting over his face. “Forgive me, lass. I’m afraid in all the excitement, I never too care of introductions.” 

You draw to a halt in front of his enormous boots. Beside you, Death’s nostrils flare with an annoyed sigh. 

Letting your jaw fall open into a wide yawn, you rush to cover your mouth with an arm, using the other to rub tiredly at the dark circles beneath your eyes. “Huh? Oh right. Right.” Once you’ve stopped yawning, you offer the maker your hand and blink languidly up at him. “I’m Y/n. S’nice to meet you, Mr?…” 

“Eideard,” he practically beams at the unexpectedly civil greeting, though he eyes your proffered hand uncertainly. “Is there…something you wish to give me?” 

“What?” You pull your hand back and turn it over, inspecting it back to front before his question clicks. “Wait. You don’t know what a handshake is, do you?”

His head swings slowly from side to side, the metal of his headdress clanking noisily in the otherwise peaceful glade. Spinning about, you catch Death’s eye instead and his scowl grows deeper the wider you smile. “ _What_?” he gripes. 

“Do  _you_  know what a handshake is?” you ask, ever hopeful. 

He scoffs. “Of  _course_.” 

Without hesitation, you stick your hand out at him, wiggling your fingers up at the white, bone-mask. “Great! You wanna help me demonstrate for him?” 

But the horseman’s arms remain tucked securely against his chest and he narrows his eyes at your appendage. “No.”

Quick as a flash, your face falls and your big, shining eyes drop to the floor, dejected. “Oh…O-okay.”

Unbeknownst to you, Death has caught the elder maker’s disapproving glare and from the corner of his eye, he can even see his crow giving him an equally dirty look. With a huff, the horseman relents and snatches up your soft hand, giving it a good, firm shake once, twice…and then promptly letting go. “There,” he spits, mostly at the crow, “happy?”  Although nobody responds verbally, its clear by the childlike glint in your wet eyes that  _you_  certainly are. 

He’s never been more grateful that his mask can hide the responsive half-smirk that darts across his lips. 

Satisfied, you turn back to Eideard. “See? It’s a human greeting. We use it when we make a new friend.”

If its at all possible, Death would swear the maker’s smile grows even bigger. The old one extends a hand until its within your reach, palm up and waits for you while you place your own hand on the top of his thumb. Then, carefully, he curls his crooked fingers around your delicate arm, engulfing the whole thing in his loose fist and gently moves it up and down as you’d demonstrated with a reluctant Death. 

“Well, Y/n,” he rumbles, straightening up again and gesturing towards the tree trunk, beyond which you can make out the glow of a morning sun, “Welcome to the Maker’s Realm. I should warn you, lass. The others may be a little more…ah… _exuberant_  about your visit than I.” 

Your feet grind to a jerking stop. Suddenly, you feel a lot more awake. 

“O- _others_?”


	5. The Makers

“Oh,  _away_  with you, you daft bird! Go on! Get!”

With protesting limbs and a reluctant grumble, you find yourself roused from a pleasant slumber by an awful cacophony of angry squawks and a  _woman’s_  voice booming from somewhere overhead.

Everything around you is warm and comfortable and within mere moments of waking, you feel the lull of sleep beckoning from the fringes of your consciousness. You’d be happy to answer its tempting call, were it not for the terrible racket going on very close by.

Grunting, you manage to raise yourself up onto your elbows and peel your eyes open, slowly squinting against the soft rays of daylight filtering down from above. You have to blink several more times to make sense of the blurry, black shape bouncing around in your lap. Rubbing groggily at your eyes, you croak, “ _Hng_ …Dust?”

The noisy bundle of feathers bleeds into focus and you’re surprised to find that it is indeed  _Dust_  perched in your lap, atop a thick blanket of white fur that you’ve somehow managed to get tangled up in. He hops sideways up to your stomach, cawing like a bird possessed and staring hard at the ceiling, his sharp talons sinking into your flesh through the thin jumper.

“ _Ouch_ , Dust!” you moan, reaching out to smooth down the ruffled feathers on his back, “mind the claws.”

The bird cocks his head at you and warbles softly, distracted for a moment by the attention. Then, he promptly fixes his attention back on the ceiling, beak dropping open with a dark hiss.

“What on  _Earth_  are you looking at?” you slur tiredly and tilt your head up to follow his line of sight.

In another instant, you’re letting out a strangled squawk of your own, scrambling backwards until you nearly topple over the edge of an odd-looking table.

’ _Oh_.  _He_ _wasn’t_ _looking at the_ _ **ceiling**_!’ you muse with a whimper.

To your horror, a pair of wide, curious eyes peer down at you from overhead, each a deep grey, similar to that of a storm-cloud or bonfire smoke.  

“Ha, nervous little thing, ain’t you?”

Looming directly above your ‘bed’ is  _another_  giant; a female this time, of epic proportions.

A huge thicket of bouncy, auburn hair flows over and around her shoulders, framing an angular face and a strong jaw. What resemble brown, leather overalls cover her body from chest to knee with the rumpled leg ends stuffed haphazardly into a pair of fur-trimmed boots.

Your gaze sweeps up her arms, following the thin, pale scars that meander over her impressive biceps and thick-set wrists. Even when she straightens, bringing her up to full height, she’s a good few feet shorter than the  _other_  one you’d met…  _'What was his name again?’_

“Eideard!” you blurt without warning, eyes darting around for the familiar, friendly face.

And then, merely for a  _familiar_  face, “Death!?”

“Hey, hey now,” the stranger coos, holding her hands up and taking a step back. “S'alright! I’m a friend.”

Fearful and  _more_  than a little cautious, you squeak, “A…..a friend?”

Her auburn hair bobs up and down with several, enthusiastic nods.

Ever so slowly, you lower the arm you’d thrown up in meagre defence. “Oh…okay…Cool.” Reassured that she hadn’t flattened you yet, you tear your eyes off her and sweep your gaze over what appears to be a cavernous, great hall. You scrunch your nose up and try to see if you recall being here before you fell asleep. “Where am I? What happened? I – I don’t remember….getting here…”

She must have seen the mounting concern darken your features because she hurries to explain. “You’re in our village – Well, in our  _forge_ , to be exact. Eideard – Remember him?”

You nod.

“- Right. He brought you in here so you could sleep. S'probably the quietest place in Tri Stone. _And_ I see he found a good use for the anvil.”

“Anvil?” you echo, glancing around. To your amazement, it’s as she says. What you assumed was a table, is in fact, a monumental blacksmith’s  _anvil_. It sits on a raised platform that’s surrounded by a low wall, and to your back is a fireplace, bigger than any you’ve ever seen. Massive chains hang down from the ceiling and walls, the latter of which are lined with strange stones, each emitting an ethereal, yellow glow that provide light to the entire chamber.

“You collapsed, you know,” the maker suddenly snatches you back to the present, her voice erring on the brink of anxious,  “At the tunnel. Completely conked out before any of us got say hello.”

“I…I…”

Frowning, you raise a hand to rub at your temples, half expecting that the motion will help you remember. Yet everything after your first conversation with the elder maker is unusually fuzzy. You  _don’t_  recall collapsing and you  _definitely_  can’t remember being carried into this cathedral-esque room. Although attempting to recall  _anything_  with Dust hissing and squawking proves to be a challenge, so you let go of the furs and stretch to the side, lifting the grouchy crow off the anvil and settling him down in your lap. He clacks his beak once, then settles, content with the gentle fingers you start to run down his neck.

“Got yourself quite a good guard-bird there,” the maker chuckles, “kicked up a right fuss, soon as I came in.”

“He…he did?” You shoot the crow an incredulous glance as he tilts his head to stare back at you, expressionless. “Huh…Thanks boy. Guess I can forgive you for pecking me now.”

Above you, the maker fidgets, twisting her fingers into the sides of the apron and chewing on her lip. After a moment, you realise that you’re being watched and quirk an eyebrow at her warily.

“I’m Alya,” she exclaims without warning, the volume of her voice sending a jolt through your heart. She grins down at you, inadvertently giving you a decent view of two, blunt tusks that jut out from her lower gums.

With a gulp, you offer a hesitant wave and a half smile. “Hullo.”

Surprisingly elated by your rather unimpressive response, she promptly drops to her knees and brings her elbows up to rest on the anvil. The force of her bulk hitting it sets your teeth rattling.

“So, you got a name?” She’s  _much_  closer now, mere feet away. You can make out the tiny freckles splattered across her nose and cheekbones, not to mention, there’s a scent lingering about her that reminds you of a fireplace. “I asked Death, but he said I should just ask you myself.”

It would be a blatant lie if you said you weren’t just a _little_ overwhelmed. Those big, grey eyes observe you with an intensity of a child studying a bug in a jar.

Your body gives an involuntary shudder at the comparison.

“Oh..Right, I’m Y/n. S'nice to meet you - Alya, was it?”

She bobs her head enthusiastically and tries out your name on her tongue, a thoughtful expression sobering her exuberant grin. “Y/n, huh?….Hmm. Well, I like it!” With that, she gives a decisive nod.

Your own smile grows a little more, put at ease by this maker’s childlike wonderment. “Oh, well thanks! I – I like Alya, too..”

Her hair bounces when she recoils in surprise, but soon, that bright smile is creeping back across her lips.

To your mortification, your stomach decides that this would be the perfect moment to voice it’s displeasure at being neglected for so many hours.

Alya’s eyebrows shoot up when your tiny body suddenly emits a series of low squelches and growls. Within seconds, you’ve thrown your arms around yourself, heat rushing up to fill your cheeks.

Cautiously amused, the maker gestures to your midriff. “Heh. Not hidin’ a  _demon_  in there, are you?”

“Ha..Sorry,” you chuckle sheepishly, “That was my stomach. Guess I’m hungrier than I thought.

“Wait. You’re hungry?” She leaps to her feet so abruptly, you gasp and very nearly topple over onto your back. “Well, why didn’t you  _say_  so! I can’t believe I forgot humans are s'posed to eat! Oh, there’s me gabbin’ on and meanwhile, you’re sittin’ there starvin’!” The maker continues to berate herself even as she makes her way to the enormous, stone doors at the end of the hall.

Realising that you’re probably supposed to follow, you scramble out from underneath the heavy furs and trot to the edge of the anvil. Sitting down carefully, you let your legs dangle before lowering yourself down to the ground and hurrying after the talkative giant.

She turns to glance down at you when she reaches the door, heart stuttering as she realises the top of your head is barely higher than her boot.

“You’ve not seen the village yet, have you?” she asks, resting a hand on the gargantuan door.

Just then, there’s a familiar flapping of wings and you find yourself stooping under the weight of Dust landing on your shoulder, wincing as he caws loudly next to your ear.

You shake your head, nervous but inquisitive, a little part of you dying to see what lies beyond this enormous room.

“Well then, Y/n,” Alya declares, puffing out her chest, “Welcome to Tri Stone.”

 

The heavy doors swing open with a single push and suddenly, you’re forced to throw an arm over your eyes, momentarily dazzled by the brilliant sun rays that flood the entrance. You remain in the doorway, waiting for your eyes to adjust, though Alya – evidently a somewhat impatient maker – nudges you over the threshold with the toe of her boot, causing you to stumble out and barely catch yourself from falling flat on your face.

“Alya!” a new voice scolds, infinitely gentle despite the stern tone, “ _Do_  be careful.”

“Sorry, thought she was stuck.”

Tentatively, you blink open your eyes and peer over the sleeve of your jumper.

Two more makers – Eideard, and a second you don’t recognise – stand at the foot of a short, stone staircase leading from a round patio up to a walkway that’s surrounded on either side by low, ashlar walls.

Between the giants, looking thoroughly disinterested by everything around him, is Death.

His head swivels in your direction and he calls out, “ _There_  you are.”

Surprised that he even noticed you were gone, you’re about to flash him a small grin when Dust lets out an answering caw and flaps up off your shoulder, smacking you in the face with an ebony wing.

“Oh. You were talking to the bird.” Spitting out a rogue feather, you watch Dust glide around their heads once before he lands heavily on the horseman’s pauldron.  

“And who else  _would_  I be talking to?,” he deadpans, cocking his bony hip to the side.

A rumbling chuckle rolls out of Eideard and he nods to you in greeting, leant up against his gargantuan staff. “Y/n, welcome back. You gave us quite a scare, you know. Collapsing the way you did.”

“You gave  _ **him**_  a scare,” Death quietly interjects under his breath.

The old one pointedly ignores him in favour of fixing you with a scrutinising eye and asking, “How are you feeling?”

Unable to catch your flinch as Alya steps by you to stand next to the unnamed maker, you force a small, albeit strained smile back at Eideard. “Better, thanks. More like a human, less like a zombie, at least.”

At last, the other maker turns her head in your general direction, hair white as a midday frost cascading gracefully down her back.  ’ _General_ ’ – you note – on account of her eyes being covered by a strip of blue cloth, the same colour as her long, velvety dress that barely brushes the ground. Gesturing towards her, Eideard introduced you. “Y/n, this is Muria. She’s our resident shaman.”

The large woman’s curved, pink lips lift into a gentle smile. “So,  _this_  is the famous, young lady who survived the end of the world.” 

Scratching at the back of your neck, you scuff your shoes on the ground, replying softly, “Actually,   _Death_   _saved_  me from it. I didn’t so much survive.”

“Indeed,” she nods, “he was just regaling us of the courage you showed, charging into a demon horde with no armour and a… _pistol_?”

Perking up slightly, you shift your timid gaze towards the horseman, who’s making a tremendous effort to avoid it. “He said I was…brave?”

“Uh. I hate to interrupt,” Alya pipes up from her place beside Eideard, “But the human just told me she’s starvin’!”

“O-oh, I wasn’t being literal! I – I was-”

The maker elder raises a placating hand. “Quite alright, quite alright. We’ve kept you waiting long enough. Alya, would you mind having a word with Death here…”

He hesitates to cast you a sidelong glance before coughing into a closed wrist. “…ah, about…The Cauldron?”

Perhaps they had assumed you’d be too distracted by your hunger to notice the conspirational looks they share, but Alya and Eideard seem genuinely surprised when you clear your throat to gain their attention and in a voice riddled with curiosity, ask, “Excuse me? What’s the cauldron?”

In an instant, Alya inelegantly heaves her massive shoulders upwards in an utterly suspicious shrug, whereas Eideard is at least a little more subtle that he’s trying to hide something from you, though you’ve no idea why.

The Old one glides a hand down his beard and offers you a reassuring smile. “It is nothing you need concern yourself with just yet.”

Despite her blindness, he can feel Muria’s appraising stare burn into the side of his head. Eideard suppresses a weary sigh.

The seer is irrevocably wise. In some ways, her wisdom far exceeds his own. She knows him well enough to predict what he’s thinking, and he knows  _her_  well enough to recognise what she’s trying to tell him, even without a single word shared.

Muria’s lips pull into a tight, grim line.

_'She’s not ours to keep.’_

His exhale – soft enough to be just another breath – gives her his answer. ’ _I know._..’

“Right, horseman!” Alya brings everyone’s focus back to her with a loud clap, “Shall we?”

Rolling his eyes more elaborately than is really necessary, Death concedes to follow the young maker up towards a spacious, stone gazebo, elevated to the right of the courtyard up another set of granite steps.

You start after them, yet as soon as you reach the first staircase, Eideard’s rumbling voice pipes up. “And where are  _you_  off to?”

Skidding to a halt, you blink owlishly up at him, gaze darting to Muria and back again, your mouth falling open and closed around a clumsy explanation. “O-oh! Well, I thought -”

Taking pity, the shaman releases an amused hum and says, “You may catch up with Death after you go and see Thane.”

“Thane?”

Eideard nods agreeably. “Our resident warrior was out hunting with the sunup, I believe he may have something for you to eat.”

“Oh – you know, you really don’t have to go through  _that_  much trouble on my account!” you protest.

Smiling kindly, Muria begins to usher you up the central staircase after Eideard. “Nonsense,” she chides, “we are not about to let you starve.”

“But-”

“And besides, Thane leapt at the chance to get his axe bloody.”

“H-his  _axe_?”

“Fret not, little one,” she reassures, gesturing for you to follow the elder whilst she draws to a halt beside another set of steps on her left. The soft-spoken giant nods to you and you return the gesture, immediately feeling stupid afterwards, given the blindfold. As if she sensed the motion, her lips quirk up briefly and she raises a hand to wave you off. “You’re safe now.”

With that, she turns and glides away. For a second, you simply watch her leave, mesmerised by the swishing drag of her dress. With a firm shake of your head, you belt out a hasty goodbye before jogging to catch up with Eideard, noticing that with every step he takes, the very ground itself trembles and shivers under all that heavy power. When you reach him, you’re able to slow to a brisk walk, although his movements seem slower and more exaggerated that they had been, and you have the sneaking suspicion he’s deliberately trying to accommodate for your speed. 

Rather than grateful though, you can only find room for embarrassment, once again wishing you weren’t quite so pathetically tiny.

Up ahead, you spot yet  _another_  maker galumphing around what appears to be a large, circular courtyard or arena, of sorts. He’s a veritable whirlwind of motion. Even from here, you can see the wood splintering off several training dummies as he hacks and slashes at them with his fearsome axe. A light sheen of sweat breaks out on your forehead.

“Are you alright?” Eideard suddenly asks, his voice scarcely louder than a whisper.

“Ye-yeah! I’m fine. It’s just….he’s really laying  _into_  those dummies, huh?”

The old one remains silent, and to begin with, you’re afraid you may have inadvertently said the wrong thing, but when you strain your head back and catch sight of his raised eyebrow and pointed stare, you murmur, “Oh, you mean in the general sense..”

After his grunt of acknowledgement, you blow a gust of air past your lips and shrug. “I’m….Yeah, I-I’m okay,” you offer as a rather lame reply.

“Now, that could not be  _further_  from the truth, could it?”

Shying away from the gentle reprimand, you take a shuddering breath before digging yourself deeper into the blatant lie. You just can’t bear the idea of being an emotional burden to these remarkable people, not on top being a  _regular_  one.

“Really, I’ll be okay. You don’t have to worry.”

It’s difficult not to wilt even further underneath Eideard’s disappointed sigh. ’ _Why does he even care so much?_ ’ you ask yourself.

However, before he can coax the real truth out of you, a new voice –  gruff and resonant as distant thunder – booms out, “Maker’s breath, Old man. Would you stop grillin’ the human 'fore she combusts!”

Startled by the unexpected volume, you freeze, taking a stiff, unconscious step behind Eideard’s boot and curling your fingers into the soft fabric of his robe only to swallow down a gasp as you peer around a gigantic knee at the newcomer.

Battle armour of gunmetal grey sways and clanks with every exaggerated movement, covering an impressive bulk from head to toe, and each tremulous step he takes towards you is measured and deliberate, much like a hunter would stalk his prey.   
There’s an axe that stands even taller than its wielder, slung over one colossal shoulder, as if it weighs no more than one of Dust’s feathers.

With eyes as hard as the stone underfoot, he stares down at you and your attention is abruptly drawn to the deep scar - longer than your arm - that stretches from his jawbone all the way up through his left eye, turning what was once a piercing slate to milky-white.

Although it looks more like a snarl, thin lips part in what you  _assume_  is a grin, revealing a pair of intimidating tusks, far blunter but also far  _longer_  than Alya’s had been.

“Well now,” he begins, rough and raucous, “back among the living, are you?”

“Thane, this is Y/n.” Eideard takes a large step to the side and turns to face you, a move that drags his robe out of your grip and leaves you completely exposed, cowering slightly under two sets of inquisitive eyes. “Thane here is our village’s best warrior, and battle master.”

Biting down on the inside of your cheek, nails digging into your palms, you force your back to straighten out and will yourself to meet Thane’s scrutiny, sensing that this is a maker who responds well to displays of courage – even if it  _is_  just mock bravado.

“Hello, sir!” you burst out, “It’s good to meet you.”

A brief moment passes, during which both makers blink at you, wide-eyed. Then, all of a sudden, Thane throws his head back and lets out a booming laugh. At the same time, Eideard politely covers his own mouth and disguises his chuckle with a few coughs.

Gradually, you begin to wither in response to their amusement.

“Ha! Sir!?” the warrior guffaws, elbowing his elder in his ribs, “Tha’s a new one!” His laughter tapers off slowly into a mirthful rumble until he swipes a thumb under his eye to flick away a mirthful tear. Placing a hand on his hip, he winks his good eye down at you. “Yer alright, kid.”

“I was  _trying_  to be polite..” Though still completely terrifying, his smile is genuine, and that Eideard seems to trust him puts you more at ease. Still, doesn’t mean you  _like_ being laughed at…

Almost as though he can predict your innermost thoughts, the warrior’s hard features soften slightly and he lowers his axe to the side, a gesture meant to sooth, not provoke. “I know. S'just refreshin’ to see some manners in these tryin’ times. S'pecially from a human youngling.”

“Yeah, well. We aren’t  _all_  bad.”

“Oh, no, no,” he murmurs softly, “I never said you  _were_.”

He falls silent then, content to study you carefully. It seems to be a reoccurring theme – being studied by makers. Then again, you  _are_  a newcomer in their world. You’re sure humans would do the same to one of them.  

“I believe you had a successful hunt?” Eideard breaks the amicable stillness that’s settled over the courtyard, motioning to a large trough where an enormous red pelt has been left to soak, turning the water a murky brown.

You let a whistle slip by your tongue. ’ _Whatever that skin belonged to must have been huge_ ,’ you muse.

Noticing you gawking, Thane’s chest swells and he places a hand on his hip, sniffing dismissively. “Yup. Was almost jumped by one o’ them stalkers. Couple’ve been prowlin’ about the fjord. Nasty little bastards,” he spits, “hide’s tougher 'n steel, but the meat’s fine.” As he speaks, he starts digging around in one of the multitude of pockets set into his armour, finally lifting out a small, leather pouch with a triumphant ’ _aha_!’ “Have a look in there.” He tosses it down to you. “Stripped it down, dried out some meat for you.”

Rendered somewhat speechless, you pull the cord free and peer inside. The pouch is positively bursting with what looks a lot like beef jerky. Reaching inside, you wrap your fingers around a long, thin hunk of dry meat and lift it to your face, giving the strange foodstuff a cursory sniff.

“Sorry it’s not anythin’ fancy,” Thane shrugs a shoulder, “M'not exactly known for my culinary skills.”

“We makers don’t tend to  _eat._ Thus _,_ I’m afraid  _cooking_  is a woefully under-practiced occupation,”the Old one points out.

Tentatively, you take the stalker meat between your fingers and thumbs, throwing the warrior a grateful smile. “Hey, I’m so hungry, this could be a meal fit for a queen!”

Stomach growling at the scent of proffered food, you toss etiquette out of the proverbial window and sink your teeth into the tough meat.

An explosion of smoky flavour hits your tongue, a wonderful relief after a whole day without food. Unable to help it, you tear a large chunk off and moan obscenely around the mouthful, swallowing it greedily.

“Oh my God!” you mumble between chews, “You  _sure_  you’re not a gourmet chef in disguise? This is delicious!”

Thane – a maker who’s solely accustomed to receiving a compliment on his battle prowess or impressive strength – finds himself at a loss for words. He reaches up and rubs at the back of his  neck, all the while aware of his elder’s appraising glance. “Tch. Weren’t nothin’…” Averting his eyes, he eventually settles on rolling a shoulder and twitching his dark, bushy moustache. “Don’t think you’ll need to eat it all  _now_  though. It’ll keep.”

Eideard chuckles warmly at the ravenousness with which you stuff the last of the meat into your mouth, only to immediately reach into the pouch and snatch up another strip.

At his side, Thane’s thick eyebrows knit together slowly as he observes you until, after a few moments of quiet, he abruptly turns to the elder and shakes his head, brown braids sweeping across his back. “Stone’s breath, I know you said she was small, but…” A hand gestures at you, up and down. “How in the world did she survive all  _that_?”

Ears burning, you glance up at him, big, shining eyes rife with equal measures of contentment and curiosity now, instead of unease and dread.

“ _Death_  saved me,” you inform him simply before taking another large bite.

“S'that so? Cause, way I heard, you saved  _him_  first.”

Once again, you find yourself thrown through a loop at hearing that. The only way these makers could know that, is if Death told them the truth of what happened. Pensive, you furrow your brow. Not that you’re any kind of expert in the horseman’s behaviour, but you had him pegged as the kind of man that’s too proud to admit that he  _had_  help in the first place.

Evidently, you’ve misjudged him.

Suddenly, Thane’s voice breaks you out of your reverie, adopting a reproachful tone. “I mean,  _I’d_  quite like to know just what in the Hell you were thinkin’? Stampedin’ straight into a demon horde.. You! A human!”

“I’m gonna be totally honest with you, Thane. I wasn’t…Thinking, that is.”

He smirks. “I’m tryin’ to work out if you’re brave or just plain daft.”

“Definitely daft,” you reply without hesitation.

Tugging at one of his white braids, Eideard emits a troubled him but Thane’s eyes twinkle with amusement. “Hmm. Polite. Retiring. A voracious appetite…”

You pause midway between swallowing a too-large piece of meat to self consciously wipe the corners of your mouth.

“Death picked a real winner with this one.”

 

The conversation evolves from there, flitting from topic to topic as you eat your fill. Your little group drifts over to the side of the arena towards a stone bench, where Thane leans casually against a wall whilst Eideard rests on the seat next to where you’re lounged, still munching away.

The Old one – given his kind soul – typically tries to steer the talk away from what happened to you on Earth. But Thane, ever oblivious, continues to dash his valiant efforts against the rocks.

“So, the other humans in this church,” he ponders, “ _none_  of them went out with you?”

Sweeping a sleeve under your nose, you lift your shoulders and click your tongue. “Why would they? It isn’t like they could do anything. I was the only one in the church with a death wish, apparently.”

Without really thinking, the warrior curls his lip and snorts disdainfully. “Cowards.”

Quick as a flash, Eideard shoots him a scolding frown and you mirror the Old one’s expression, defensive of your people. “Why does  _not_  wanting to die make them cowards?”

Slightly taken aback, Thane’s sneer falls and he unfolds his arms. “Well, they let you go alone. They should have stuck by you. Yer just a -” He hesitates, taking in your hard glare and steeling his resolve. “Well look at you! You’re  _just_  a kid.”

Bowing your head to frown at your shoes instead of him, you softly murmur, so quiet that the two makers have to lean in to hear you. “Most of  _them_  were kids too….Way younger than  _me_.”

Eideard’s very chest deflates at your words and he opens his mouth, perhaps hoping to offer some consolation but you continue, preventing him from interjecting. “There was a baby, and his mum. Two small boys… Some older couples - too old to fight. There were  _families_ …Everyone in there had someone they wanted to stay safe for. But me?” You let out a grim snort. “my family was –  _is_  – ugh! They  _were_  out in the city somewhere. Not in that church. I didn’t have anything to stay for, so I thought, 'what the hell,’ you know?”

If either maker picked up on your stumble, they were gracious enough not to remark upon it. Not knowing whether or not to write your family off as dead must be  _killing_ you.

Thane understands. He’d recently seen his brother, Ulthane, disappear into the Tree of Life and escape the Forge Lands before Corruption barred the way. Where he ended up was anyone’s guess. But being unable to say with any degree of certainty that his own brother is alive or dead is worse than any pain he’s suffered in battle.

“They thought that, by staying, they’d have a chance…” Tears prickle behind your eyes, so you busy yourself with tying the cord back around it’s pouch and sealing the rest of the meat inside.

“And call me a cynic, but I  _didn’t_ think that _._ I saw how bad it was outside and I just couldn’t stop thinking about how hopeless it all seemed. Then, I got to thinking about how much I didn’t want to die trapped. I couldn’t stand the..the  _waiting_! Waiting for  _it_ to happen, I  _hated_  that. I just wanted it to be ov-” You quickly cut yourself off, surprised at yourself. You hadn’t yet acknowledged the fact that you’d been perfectly ready to die, back on Earth. It feels strange, revealing the truth to oneself. You sound breathless, reeling from the sudden epiphany.  “I…I didn’t just  _know_  going out there was suicide….I think – I think I  _wanted_  it to be.”

And just like that, you feel ashamed, curling your hands into fists and shrinking in on yourself. “So…I  _wasn’t_  being brave….Figures. I just…got lucky.  _Lucky_  that Death was there.” You look up and meet Eideard’s wizened eyes. “Yeah. I got lucky. That’s all.”

Never a more sorrowful sight has the Old one seen before he looked upon a lonely human, struggling with tumultuous grief, caught up in a war she never saw coming and lost in a world she never knew existed.   
Heartstrings thoroughly in shambles, he almost –  _almost_  – reaches out to you…But just then, your forehead creases into a frown and you look to your shoes, ponderously chewing on the inside of a cheek.

“Do you think….. anyone  _else_  'got lucky,’ like me?”

Shifting on his feet, and uncertain of how he ought to react to a human that just confessed something so personal, Thane asks, “What d'you mean?”

“…Do you think anyone else made it? Could there be other survivors?”   
Eideard moves his hands up the neck of his staff, heart sinking faster than a stone tossed in the sea. As the village elder, it always tends to fall upon him to deliver bad news, yet seeing your round, trusting eyes gaze up at him imploringly, flickering with the morsel of renewed hope you’ve latched onto, he suddenly finds the appropriate words escaping his reach.

Thane however, brutal in every aspect  _including_  honesty, forgets to hold back his skeptical snort. “Maker’s beard, I doubt it. Well, mayhaps the ones out in the country’ll have a few days on the city folk. But even if the demons don’t get 'em, starvation soon will.”

Only the elder seems to notice when your face turns from cautiously optimistic to absolutely crestfallen in a matter of milliseconds. “Thane,” he rumbles softly.

“What?” The old warrior follows his leader’s gaze down to you and he’s immediately struck with the urge to punch himself. It might hurt less than the slug to his gut he feels upon seeing you with your shoulders slumped low, bottom lip quivering and your eyelids drooped dejectedly.

“Oh.” He squeezes his eyes shut, wincing. “Listen, kid… I-…Maybe-”

At that moment, from the other end of the village, a shrill whistle punctures the air and snatches the attention of all three of you.

Looking back over your shoulder, you eventually spot Alya waving at you, standing on the steps of her stone gazebo and beckoning you excitedly.

Instinct dictates that you return the gesture.

Scrubbing at a stray tear as it makes its way down to your jaw, you raise an arm and wave back.

“Hmm, it would appear you’re required elsewhere,” the Old one observes before motioning to your pouch of stalker meat. “Have you eaten enough?”

Turning to him again, you offer a tight-lipped smile and a nod.

“Good.” He grimaces when he catches sight of Thane, whose eyes still haven’t left your face. “Why don’t you run along and see why our forge sister needs you? Oh, don’t worry,” he shakes his head as you try to hand him the pouch, “you can keep that.”

“Thank you,” you mutter. “And…sorry for offloading on you like that. I didn’t even realise what I was saying until I’d already said it.”

“You needed to get some things off your chest, that you felt brave enough to share such anguish with  _us_  is humbling, not to mention encouraging. I hope this means you are coming to trust us?”

“Huh…” You pause, thinking. You don’t really have any reason  _not_  to trust these strange, albeit friendly creatures. Eideard especially. And Muria had a very kind demeanour. As for Thane and Alya, they may not be as gentle as the other two, but it’s clear they’re just as well-intentioned. “I guess I am, yeah.”

Relief is quick to burrow it’s way through the old maker’s veins. “For that, I am glad. Now, you’d better run along before Alya comes to get you herself.”

Flashing him a quick thumbs-up – an action that completely flies over his head– you look up at Thane, whose one, flinty eye slips down to your feet before you can catch it. It’s a surreal experience, having a giant warrior tower over you and still appear thoroughly cowed. God, you hope he doesn’t resent you.

Wringing your hands together, you peer up through your lashes at him. “Thane?”

The maker flicks his attention to you once more.

“Thank you for the food. It was very kind of you.”

Averting his eyes, he sniffs, “Yer welcome…” before falling silent again.

You spot Eideard giving him a sidelong glance, lips twitching up at the corners.

Struck with the need to beat a hasty retreat, you give an awkward nod to both of them and excuse yourself, spinning on a heel and hurrying off towards Alya’s forge, feeling Thane’s eyes on your back the whole way.

———-

With one eyebrow raised as he watches you go, the warrior waits until you’re out of earshot before he groans deeply, slapping a meaty palm over his eyes and placing the other on his hip. Beside him, Eideard lets out a soft laugh. “And here I thought you were a tactician, old friend.”

“Me n’ my big mouth,” Thane grumbles, lifting his hand and dropping it back to his side, “She probably thinks I’m such a brute….Well, she wouldn’t be wrong.”

“She’s young, and still so new to everything here – everything  _we_  are. Give her time, she’ll soon learn that you aren’t nearly as crass as you appear.”

Thane snorts as he sees you almost trip up the steps in your haste and Alya’s sharp laugh cuts right across Tri Stone. “Tch. Never been much good with the wee ones.  _You_ know that.”

“Hmm.” Eideard sighs. “It has been far too long since we had a youngling in our midst…”

Smirking, the warrior simply states, “Karn.”

“Karn is the young _est._  That does not make him especially young.”

Thane claps the Old ones’ shoulder, jostling him about, though Eideard hardly acknowledges the companionable gesture, too busy staring in the direction you disappeared, the tips of his fingers playing with a small braid and his snowy eyebrows knitted together pensively.

Glancing between you and the other maker, Thane must have picked up on the fleeting hint of an affectionate smile because he heaves out a sigh, keeping his hand firmly on Eideard’s shoulder.

“Careful,” he warns, “I know  _that_  look.”

“What look?”

He levels a flat glare at the elder that only grows darker when a youthful grin stretches Eideard’s mouth and lifts his pale cheeks.

“All I’m sayin’ is,” Thane continues, “Just because she shared something like….. _ **that**_ with us, doesn’t mean she wants to be our friend. So don’t you go gettin’ attached! M'pretty sure she’s still secretly scared stiff of us.”

For the sake of putting the warrior’s mind at ease, Eideard simply offers him an acquiescing nod.  

——————–

Cracks in the stone walkway threaten to trip you up as you pick your way from Thane and Eideard towards Alya’s covered gazebo. Scowling at your feet, you grumble, “Of all the days to wear heels to work…”

With your stomach full and a good, long sleep under the belt, there are far fewer things to distract you from thinking about the horrors of the last couple of days. Every time there’s a lapse in concentration, you begin to think back on the church – on father Michael and the man with the suitcase and the children and then…. your mind wanders to your parents. The uncertainty of whether or not they’re still alive is akin to torture. You can’t say if you’d rather know for  _certain_  that they were…

…God, should you be  _grieving_  right now?

A sharp pain spikes through your hand and you glance down at it, blinking upon seeing that you’ve only gone and pierced the skin of your palms with blunt nails. “Piss,” you mutter, though you’re glad of the momentary respite – something physical to take your mind off the hurt in your heart and soul.

Unfortunately, in staring at your hand, you manage to get a shoe’s heel lodged in a particularly wide crack between one of the steps. With a yelp, you tilt forwards, foot slipping free and you’re suddenly forced to put your hands out, bracing them on the stone to avoid a split lip.

Landing on your outstretched arms with a dull thud, Alya is quick to throw her head back and give out a bark of laughter.

Cheeks burning, you hurry to right yourself and reach back, snatching the shoe up before stumbling up the last of the steps to her side. Craning your neck to look up, you huff, “Hey.”

“Hey,” she replies easily, her lips tugged up into a sunny beam. “Better with a bit of food in you?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Grand!” She steps aside and ushers you into the makeshift forge. “Also, glad you’re here. Valus’s got something else for you.”

“Valus?” you echo, quirking a brow, “Who’s-”

How on Earth you hadn’t seen the absolute monster of a boot right in front of you, you’ll never know.

Yes, you’d had your eyes trained on Alya at the time, but  _really_.

Without warning, your nose smacks into something solid as a brick wall and the next thing you know, you’re sprawled on your back, clutching a hand to your sore face.  

Three different voices ring out in response to your distress.

The loudest is unmistakeably Alya, whooping and howling out a long flow of raucous laughter.   
The second, a quieter, far more exasperated sigh. “You have  _eyes_ , human. Might want to use them.”

The last, however, comes out as a simple, worried grunt.

Cracking open your eyes, you choke on your own spit the moment you see what – or rather,  _who_  you ran into.

Staring down from about fifteen feet, is the most formidable maker you’ve seen so far. And you thought  _Thane_  was scary.

The newcomer rises like a mountain over your head, his chest and legs completely covered by dull, grey armour trimmed with glistening gold.

Your eyes trail up his left arm. Unlike it’s counterpart, this appendage is utterly bare, giving you an uninterrupted view of bulging muscles that are littered with scars and nicks – some long and shallow, others short but deep as a crevice. The hand on the end of one, thick wrist is blackened with soot, stained into his skin by years of working over a hot forge and each, stout finger is tipped by a cracked, blunt nail.

But by far the aspect of this giant that unnerves you most is the oblong slab of dark metal that obscures his whole face from view. There’s only a simple, narrow slit running from one side to the other – not unlike a welding helmet - leaving him just enough room to see out of but not enough that fire sparks will slip through and catch in his eyes.

Frozen where you sit, your little chest heaving up and down in rapid succession in direct contrast to his own, glacially slow breaths, you barely notice that Death had stepped up behind you until his cold fingers slide under the collar of your jumper and he lifts you back onto your feet.

“Do all humans spend as much time on their backsides as  _you_  do?” He shakes his head. “You’ll face down a horde of phantom guards and take out their general, but  _one_  maker has you cowering?”

“Hey! I am  _not_  cowering.” You cast your eyes up and down the giant as you pat the dust from your skirt. “He’s just… _big_!”

If the horseman rolled his eyes any harder, they’d disappear into the back of his skull. “He’s a maker.  _Big_  is their default.”

“Aye, don’t worry about Valus,” Alya chimes in, stepping around you to sling an arm over his burly shoulders. “He’s softer'n Eideard, most days.”

“Hardly seems likely.  _Nothing’s_  softer than that old coot,” Death mutters to you, smirking when you shoot him a chiding glare.

Ignoring his comment, Alya waves her hand vaguely in your direction. “Brother, this is Y/n. Say hello.”

A pregnant pause ensues where that enormous, metal helmet pivots sideways and you get the distinct impression that you’re being studied…. _Again_.  
Swallowing thickly, you’re just beginning to wonder if you’re expected to introduce yourself first when Valus cautiously dips his head and a soft, almost imperceptible rumble flows out through the visor. It isn’t a word – not any you can recognise – but it’s unmistakable in it’s intent. A greeting.

Bit by bit, your fear wanes. Or perhaps it has something to do with the omnipotent horseman currently standing just a little closer to your back than is really necessary. You can feel the unnatural cold rolling off his chest and hitting the nape of your neck.   
Lips lifting up into a shy grin, you return the maker’s greeting with a bob of your head. “The, uh..Strong, silent type. Are you?”

“Silent?  _Ha_! Hardly,” his sister barks, though when he levels his helm at her, she adds,” Well, maybe in the literal sense. But he  _does_  have a voice.”

Here, she steps away from him to spread her arms wide and proud. “His voice is the ring of the hammer and the roar of the flame!”

Crossing his arms, the horseman at your side grumbles, “Yes. He works while  _you_ talk.”

In a motion that is as gutsy as it is foolish, you elbow him in the stomach and click your tongue. “Death! Don’t be rude.”

Much too startled that you struck him to be angry, he can only turn an astonished eye down to you, his mouth hanging open ever so slightly beneath the mask.

To her credit, Alya does a remarkably good job of hiding her amusement at the bewildered expression playing around Death’s eyes. Instead, she slaps the back of her hand on Valus’s chest, exclaiming, “Oh, speaking of work…”

She nods and her brother lumbers to the back of the gazebo and takes something from the far wall, his giant hands cupped over and under it as he carries it back towards you.

“Valus here’s made you something.”

“Wait,  _what_?” you squeak, taking a step back from the quiet maker when he thuds down onto a knee in front of you and holds out a hand.

Behind you, Death watches curiously as Valus’s thick fingers gradually uncurl to reveal a pair of tiny, leather boots.

In an instant, a happy gasp leaps out of you at the sight of them and the horseman can’t quite fathom why. They aren’t particularly lavish at all. Deep brown, knee length with a single brass buckle stitched onto the outside of each, just above the ankle. In fact, the most impressive thing about them, is their size.

Begrudgingly, Death has to admit that Valus is indeed a skilled maker, to craft something so dainty using such bulky hands and tools…

And yet, your eyes still shine bright as a sunbeam, and your fingers are hesitant to the point of reverence where they hover over the maker’s hand, not quite touching the gift.

“You  _made_  these?” you ask, dragging your gaze off them to peek through his visor, “for me?”

“Well, they certainly won’t fit anyone  _else_  here,” scoffs Death.

“I don’t know what to say…They’re beautiful!”

The sincerity laced in your words has Alya hiding her mouth behind a hand whilst her brother rubs at the back of his neck, glad that the helm hides a glaring blush that creeps up and settles in his cheeks.

“But…” As soon as it appeared, your smile droops and you withdraw your hands, wringing them together. “I don’t have anything to give you for them..”

The twins share a surprised look before turning their attention back to you. The sister blinks, then lets out a warm chuckle, reminding you for a moment of Eideard. “Maker’s bones, human! We’re not gonna charge you for 'em!”

“You’re not?” you and Death parrot at the same time.

“Course not!” she chirps.

“Now hold on a moment.” The horseman’s yellow eyes shift up to meet Alya’s. “The human gets a brand new pair of boots, but if I want some wrist wrappings without  _holes_  in them, suddenly I have to prove myself?”

“ _Y/n’s_  needs are greater than yours,” the maker states firmly, gesturing towards the heel you’re still clutching, “You’ve seen how clumsy she is in those things.”

“Oi!”

“N’ besides,” she continues, heedless of your offended tone, “She’ll have a much easier time keeping up with you in these boots, don’t you think?”

Death grunts. “If they even fit. She hasn’t tried them on yet.”

“If they even-!?” Spluttering, Alya recoils and throws him a dirty look and a scoff. Face like thunder and without taking her eyes off him, she snaps, “Brother, give her the boots. Y/n, you try those on a tell this…. _horseman_  how  _well_  they fit.”

Wary of invoking her wrath, Valus all but dumps the boots into your arms.

Under three sets of watchful eyes, you plonk yourself down on the ground to kick off your remaining heel and hastily pull on the new footwear.

“Well?” Alya’s tone is ever hopeful. Even Valus has a forearm draped over his bent knee, focused solely on you. Which makes sense, you suppose. He  _did_  make them, after all.

After a few, terse moments of wriggling your toes, you push yourself back to your feet and take a few, testing steps across the gazebo towards a large barrel stuffed to the brim with sword hilts.

“They….they’re..”

The makers lean closer, their pointed ears pricked eagerly.

“They fit…better than any shoe I’ve ever worn!” you finally exclaim, beaming up at Valus, eyes sparkling, “That’s incredible. How did you  _do_  that?”

“Valus is one of the best craftsmen I know. He only has to  _look_  at you to know your measurements in  _seconds_.” Alya proudly states, her chest puffed out whereas her brother visibly shrinks away from the glowing praise and your expression of utmost awe.

You get the distinct impression he’s unused to receiving many thank you’s. As a maker, you suppose his skill is just..expected of him.

The boots are admittedly a rushed work, and with more time, he could have made something even an  _angel_  would be proud to wear. Yet here you are, beaming down at your your new apparel as though they’re the most marvellous things in the world.

Deep within his ribcage, Valus’s heart gives a happy quiver.

Meanwhile, Alya is having to call upon all her self-restraint to keep from sticking her tongue out at the reaper. Instead, she settles for a hugely self satisfied smirk.

“Well, at least she won’t trip and fall to her doom,” he shrugs, “now, if  _only_  you could solve all the other ways a human might die out in the Cauldron.”

He quirks a brow at you when you ask in a small voice, “Seriously, what  _is_  this Cauldron?”

Alya opens her mouth to reply, but she’s silence by her brother grunting and bumping into her with his shoulder.

“Ow-What…Oh!”

The makers peer down at you, sympathy pulling at their expressions. Eideard had been perfectly clear after he placed you in the forge. You would probably try to follow Death out into the Forge Lands, away from the protective walls of Tri – Stone. You were to be discouraged from doing this.

The horseman however, sees no such need for discretion. If you wanted to follow him and get yourself killed, that’s your decision. Unlike Eideard,  _he_  refuses to coddle you.

“It’s my next destination,” he mutters with feigned disinterest. In truth, he’s curious to know whether you’ll continue to surprise him.

“Apparently, if I want to leave this wretched place, I have to solve  _everyone’s_ problems.”

“Our problems  _are_  your problems, horseman,” Alya bites back, “You want the Tree? You need to help  _us_.”

“ _And_  because it’s the right thing to do,” you pipe up, ducking back the moment Death’s sharp focus lands on you.

“I do not deal with the fundamentals of 'right’ or 'wrong’. My only concern is what produces results.”

“..Well… What a sad way to be.”

“And what, prey tell, would you know? You’re only a human.”

Ah…perhaps a little below the belt, judging by the hurt scowl that flashes across your face and the heated glares from both makers. For a moment, Death considers telling you that he’d only meant it teasingly, then decides he doesn’t much care.

Before you can shoot back a doubtlessly cutting retort, he turns on his heel and traipses out of the gazebo, down the steps. As he suspects, you hesitate for all of five seconds, then sigh defeatedly and throw another word of thanks back to the makers before hurrying after him.

Valus actually starts after you, an agitated moan on his lips, but Alya’s hand on his shoulder draws him to a slow halt. He swivels his head around to her, a question burning in the eyes she can’t quite see.

“S'not our place,” she sighs with a shake of her head. Her brother hums low and she continues, “Well, of course  _I_  don’t like it either, I mean…she’s so-” She pauses to grasp futilely at the air, any words she wants to say escaping her reach.

Helpfully, Valus makes a noise in the back of his throat and she laughs. “I was thinkin’ more along the lines of helpless. But, aye.  _Cute_  sounds about right.”

They stare after you for a few more minutes until Alya finally claps her gloved -hands together. “Right. Come on, back to the grindstone…”

————————–

To begin with, you assumed you were seeing double.

But after blinking and rubbing at your eyes, you can’t pretend that there  _aren’t_  two suns brightening up the clear blue sky.

“Hey, Death?” you ask as you both cross Thane’s arena - now devoid of any makers – and head for another flight of ashlar stairs.

Sparing you a cursory glance, he hums, prompting you to continue.

“How come there are  _two_  suns?”

Without hesitation, he flatly replies, “Minimalism, I suppose.”

“Haha….wait, what?”

In no time, you reach the top step together and spot Eideard standing with Thane in front of a colossal, round slab of rock. You take in its enormity and deduce – with a jolt – that it must serve as the village’s front gate.

“Hell of a security measure,” you mumble.

At your side, the horseman nods, his lips pursed in mutual agreement.

“Death!” Thane calls, eyes roving down to you, “-and Y/n…Nice boots.”

“Thanks Thane,” you greet the maker and smile over at Eideard, whose face is more lined than you remember it being.

The dark-haired warrior huffs and drums his fingers against his axe’s handle. “You two’ll find naught that way but trouble..”

Coming to a stop in front of him, Death peers up into his grim visage and says, “Do what you must for your kin, Old one. For mine, I ride to the Cauldron.”

Ears flattened to his skull, Thane grumbles deeply and shifts his grey eyes over towards you,  carefully replying, “You know, if you fancy your Corruption waist deep, that’s as good a place as any.” He catches you staring up at the gate. ’ _He’s searching her for hesitation_ ,’ Death realises, and he must find it because the maker’s face softens of its own accord. “There’s a reason this gate is here,” he says gently, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. “And if the horseman were a friend, I would nay let him pass. But then, ha…Who is friend to Death?”

And then, to the astonishment of two, fully grown makers and an ancient Nephilim, the little human at their feet shrugs a shoulder and offers a response nobody had expected.

“I don’t know, I’m kind of starting to like him.”

A thick, tangible silence settles over the courtyard. Even the wind drops several knots, as though the very forces of nature themselves are rendered struck by the absurdity of such a bold statement.

Thane’s tusks flash in the sunlight as he drops his jaw open and blinks in surprise whereas the only indication of Eideard’s shock is the slow arching of one, bushy eyebrow, soft blue gaze switching between you and the horseman several times.

Death, on the other hand, looks like he’s just been slapped and now his face is trying to figure out whether it should be offended, glad, gobsmacked or suspicious.

It doesn’t take long for his piercing eyes to settle on quiet acceptance. You notice the strange looks you’re receiving and furrow your brow at each of them in turn. “What?…Oh, come on. He’s not  _that_  bad. I mean, he did save my life and he’s….kind of funny? Sometimes….when he’s not being mean.”

Thane harrumphs skeptically, “M'not sure that makes up for…” But he trails off when he catches Eideard’s look. The Elder jerks his eyes to Death indicatively, and the warrior follows his gaze, eventually seeing what his fellow maker wants him to.

Death has yet to take his eyes off you. The intensity of his stare is unnaturally calm, and you’re definitely aware of it because you’re very deliberately staring at Thane, trying to ignore the horseman whilst you shift from foot to foot. And then, just like that, that bone-white mask snaps forward again and he motions towards the round gate.

“Are you planning to open that any time soon?”

Fists clenching, Thane throws Eideard an unsteady hum and he lowers his voice, addressing the horseman but watching  _you_  closely. “What about her?”

Death blinks. “What  _about_  her?”

“You planning on taking her with you? To the Cauldron?”

“If she  _wants_  to come,” he shrugs, nonchalant before turning to you, “ _Do_  you?”

Caught in a staring match with three, ethereal beings, you find yourself thoroughly daunted under their collective attention. In the end, you allow your head to drop and you look down at your feet, mumbling, “I don’t know.”

Thane sneers. “She doesn’t know.  _That’s_  reassuring.”

“No, I-I  _do_  know. I want-” Puffing out your cheeks, you take a deep breath and jut your chin at the warrior. “I want to  _help_.”

“Even though it’s not a question of 'if’, but ’ _when_ ’ you get chewed up and spat out?”

Exasperated, you throw up your hands. “I – I  _guess_!”

He barks out a dubious laugh, eyes narrow and on the very precipice of desperate. “Do you  _want_  to die?!”

“No! I want to go  **HOME**!”

Your bellow echoes like a thunderclap throughout Tri Stone, high and sharp.

Thane’s torn ear twitches down in response to the volume and Eideard’s lips part around a gentle sigh.

Frustrated tears prickle at the corners of your eyes and you pant once, angrily swiping a hand over your cheeks. “I  _want_  to go home. But I can’t do that from here!” Raising a quivering finger, you jab it at Death. “Now,  _he_  says, he’s gonna try and save humanity!-”

“In a manner of speaking,” he mutters under his breath.

“- But they’re  _ **my**_  people!”

Eideard, Thane and a bemused Death watch you clench your fists and bite down hard on your lip, a furious attempt to stop the tiny rivulets of tears that trickle steadily towards your chin. Standing in their domineering shadows leaves you timid and uncertain of yourself.

Hands wringing over one another, you frown at your thumbs. “I’m not brave. I’m not even very smart. And you’re right-” You glance up at Thane. “- I’m almost  _definitely_ gonna die out there. But, I’m not about to….I cannot just sit here! I’ll go mad if I do! I’m not ready to-” At last, you have the presence of mind to cut yourself. If you allow yourself the time to just sit and think…

You shudder to imagine. No…Better to keep busy than to dwell.

Finally, more reluctant that he’s been in a while, the Old one utters,“If this is your wish, we cannot interfere.”

Beside him, Thane’s stormy face falls and his eyes slip shut. Through gritted teeth, he growls, low and dangerous, “Eideard…She’s just a  _bairn_.”

Before you have the chance to scoff and launch into a protest, Death steps forward, snapping impatiently, “ _Not_.  _Yours_.”

The warrior’s lips pull up over his tusks into a snarl. “That’s  _not_  what I -”

He’s stopped by the elder maker promptly laying a large hand on his forearm. The two of them stare at each other for a time, conveying a silent message that you can’t hope to decipher.

At your side, the horseman’s fingers tap against his belt.

The tension has you gritting your teeth, uncomfortable and more than a little miffed.

’ _I am not a child, you big jerk_ ,’ you want to announce. Although, judging by the barely restrained animosity rippling just below the surface of Thane’s battle-scarred skin, antagonising him may not be the wisest course of action.  

In the end, the warrior’s bristling muscles slacken and he squints at you with his good eye, mulling over the situation. “Alright,” he grunts at last, shrugging Eideard’s hand off and levelling a large, stern finger at your face, “but not without a weapon.” With that, he turns and begins lumbering over towards the stairs again, beckoning you to follow.

You hesitate for a second to throw a questioning glance back at Death, who exhales roughly but jerks his head at the maker and grumbles, “You’d better hurry up, or else I’m going without you.”

He narrows his eyes when you make a strange gesture with your hand, holding up a closed fist and sticking your thumb into the air. The nephilim has spent a lot of time around humans and he  _still_  has no idea what that means.

Watching you disappear down the steps, Eideard lets slip a fond chuckle before turning to the horseman. “You’re letting her accompany you…”

It’s an observation. Not an accusation…. _He’s curious, then._  “It’s as I said. If she wants to get herself killed, that’s not my concern.”

The maker’s expression remains impassive. “Then why bother to save her in the first place? Why pull her off one world, only to let her die in another?”

Death shifts on his feet, kicking a pebble and sending it skittering after you down the steps. But otherwise, he remains perfectly, stubbornly silent, cursing the old one’s ability to render him nearly transparent.

————————-

“Uh…I think this one might be a bit too big…”

You clasp your fingers around the handle of a gargantuan war-hammer, once again giving it an experimental tug upwards and almost tearing your arms from their sockets.

Meanwhile, Thane looks on, chin in hand and eyes narrowed to slits. “Hmm. You sure? This is the smallest hammer I’ve got…Used to be fit for trainin’ the younglings.”

At the comparison, your face darkens. “Thane, I can barely  _lift_  this, let alone swing it…And besides-”

You pull the pistol out of your back pocket and present it to him proudly. “- I already have this.”

The maker pauses in rifling through a crate filled with discarded, half-broken halberds to quirk a brow at the gun in your hand. “Ha!” he exclaims abruptly, “I said you need a  _weapon_ , not a peashooter..”

His dark braids swing from side to side with a shake of his head. He doesn’t have to  _see_ you to feel the haughty glare you’re giving the back of his head.

Scrounging around for a few more moments, he paws aside various axes, blades and hammers until at last, he catches sight of something near the very bottom, half buried beneath an axehead. “Huh,” he grunts, “forgot this was in here. Thought Valus melted it down for scrap.”

Craning your neck and trotting closer you try to grab the side of the crate and heave yourself up to see inside. “What? What is it?”

“Careful. Don’t want you fallin’ on anythin’ pointy.” A thumb and forefinger gently pry you off and place you back on the ground whilst Thane’s other hand dives inside and fishes out whatever he’d discovered.

Your eyes widen when you see what it is.

It’s a sword, still in its scabbard. The blade is tiny in comparison to Thane’s hand but it appears to be of similar length to an old Gladius you’d once gawked at in an war museum, if a few inches longer.

But just then, to your dismay, the maker huffs and promptly chucks it over his shoulder where it clatters to the ground several meters away.

“H-hey!” you protest, chasing after the discarded weapon, “What’s wrong with this one?” Picking it up, you brush the scabbard free of dust and grit.

Behind you, Thane pushes himself upright again and hoists his thick, leather belt up, ambling over to you. “Think you mean, what’s  _right_  with it.”

Tentatively, you take hold of the hilt and slide the sword out of its scabbard, your eyes shimmering in the sunlight as you trace them along the grey fuller to the point. “What are you  _talking_  about!? It’s light, I can lift it  _and_  it has a scabbard.” You give it a few, testing thrusts. “Ohoh! I can  _definitely_  stab something with this!”

Incredulous, the warrior scoffs. “Well,  _aye_. But..but i-it’s just a journeyman piece! One of Karn’s – our  _youngest_. Look, the metal quality isn’t even up to standard, the pommel’s shoddy and far too big, the grip’s about an inch too short! And don’t get me  _started_  on this cross guard!” He finishes with a snap of his teeth, folding his arms over a broad chest and glowering irritably at the small, clumsy sword. “Not to mention, s'ugly.”

You on the other hand, simply blink up at him, a blank expression smoothing your features until they suddenly twist into a baffled but amused grin. “Pffft! What difference does  _that_  make!?”

“Plenty. Trust me.”

“You worry too much.” Tutting, you throw the sword back in it’s scabbard and sling it around your waist, fumbling with the buckle as you eagerly stride back to the steps. “Thanks Thane! This’ll be perfect!. Come on, Death said if I keep him waiting, he’d leave me behind!”

Heaving out a long-suffering sigh, Thane pinches the bridge of his nose, but he does concede to thunder after you, easily catching up and matching your pace. “Maker forbid the Pup ever find out you’ve got one of his crafts. His head’ll get too big to fit through the gate.”

At the top once again, you find Eideard leaning heavily on his staff whilst Death seems to be making a tremendous effort to ignore him and Dust has taken up a perch on his master’s shoulder.

The bird caws when you approach, and you can’t quite stop yourself from trotting eagerly over to the horseman as Thane reaches the side of the gate, places both hands on the stone and plants his feet.

“Check it out!” you chirrup, freeing the sword from its hilt, “Got a stick!”

The disdainful look Death casts over it is far from reassuring. “Perhaps a  _stick_  might serve you better.”

Harrumphing, you slam it back on your hip. “You’re as bad as Thane.”

Just then, a strained groan reaches your ears.

You and the horseman twist about to watch as the mighty warrior pushes on the gigantic stone slab, the veins on his neck and temple bulging just like his swollen muscles.

In no time at all, the maker has rolled the entire gate to one side and shoves off it, shaking his hands out as he lets go.

Mouth agape, you gaze up at him in awe.

“Woah…How strong  _are_  you!?”

Swiping a thumb under his nose, Thane shrugs, not entirely managing to conceal the way his wide chest swells beneath the armour. “Ah. S'just a maker thing.”

“ _You_  are far too easily impressed,” Death gripes, stalking purposefully to the gate, past the makers and straight into a dimly lit tunnel beyond. Like the gaping maw of some great, hungry beast, the darkness swallows the horseman whole. After he mostly disappears from view, he suddenly pauses and spins around, calling out, “Well? Aren’t you coming along?”

As the weight of this situation finally dawns, your legs abruptly seize and you trundle to a stop at the village’s threshold, staring forwards in doe-eyed wonder.

“Having second thoughts?” a soft voice asks, to your right.

You peep up at Eideard, a canine shoved uncertainly into your lower lip.

“There’s no shame in staying here,” he whispers gently and you can see the understanding burn in his boundlessly wise gaze.

Summoning up the strength to draw in a weak breath, you release it again, an air of finality in the motion as you set your jaw and rest one hand on the hilt of your new weapon. Facing the tunnel and the horseman, your voice trembles something fierce but you still manage to answer, “No  _point_  either.”

Then, without another word and without giving yourself a moment longer to dwell on the disastrous ramifications of leaving the safety of Tri-Stone, you swing your leg out in front of you and take your first, brave steps into a new world.


	6. Vulgrim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the first real step of your journey with the Horseman, Death. You've left the safety of Tri Stone - a move he hadn't predicted - to travel to the Cauldron. Along the way, you inevitably come across some....obstacles. Both physical and mental, and it's up to the both of you to finally start trying to understand each other. .. .

Navigating the long, crumbling bridge cavern was easy.

Navigating it with a human  _tagalong_  however was.... _interesting_.

Death – who had no idea there were  _so_ _ **many**_  fascinating  _distractions_  to be discovered – stalks several feet behind the young human; now his little travelling companion, it would seem.

The absence of any immediate danger has clearly lulled her into a false sense of security and as such, she's become bolder. Glowering at the back of her head, Death wonders how long  _that_  will last. She's even begun to stray from his side, venturing further and further every passing minute as soon as something new catches her eye. The basis for her intrigue in these discoveries are, as far as he can tell, based on absolutely nothing at all, and with not much else to do, he starts languidly trying to predict which mundane, uninspiring object she'll scurry over to next.

' _A rock_ ,' he notes, rolling his eyes as she bends down and selects a smooth, grey stone from the weathered path at her feet. Then, turning it over in her hands, she looks around, searching. ' _Ah. Not the rock itself._ '

He watches her trot ahead a few more metres to the edge of the grassy walkway that spans one side of the cavern to peer cautiously over the edge. Extending an arm out, she holds the rock above a pool of water gathered at the bottom of a deep, wide chasm cut out of the floor and promptly tips her hand, letting it plummet several feet into the natural pond with an negligible ' _sploosh_ '.

The horseman blinks.  _What_  that accomplished, he'll never know but  _she_  seems to be satisfied with her findings, judging by her decisive nod. At least until Dust swoops overhead and lets out a conversational squawk, startling the human and sending her back-peddling to sheepishly fall in line with his long strides.

* * *

 

Despite her jittery disposition, he has to give credit where it's due; She came  _with_  him. Namely, she left the promise of safety to follow him out into a world she'd never experienced before....and yet, she jumps at shadows.

' _How can one person be afraid of everything yet fear nothing_?' Boundless as the universe is, there are very few mysteries in it that the horseman gives much thought to. Nothing perplexes him anymore, but he puzzles over this particular paradox for some time until your voice rudely snaps him from his thoughts.

“What...The Hell....Is  _that_?”

\-----

With his brow still creased in a pensive glower, Death follows you beneath a structural archway built around the tunnel's exit and steps into the sunlight. A verdant, boundless valley stretched out before him, surrounded to the south, east and west by craggy, sandstone cliffs. Beyond them, far on the distant horizon, a ring of snowy mountain peaks climb up into the sky - cold, foreboding and just as unforgiving as the land itself.   
Through his mask, Death's nostrils catch a strong whiff of wood smoke and beneath that, the acrid stench of brimstone, carried on an autumnal breeze from the east. The horseman scrunches his face up distastefully. Regardless of Alya's directions, it would not have been difficult to determine the location of The Cauldron. He need only use his sense of smell.

Meanwhile, you have a hand held over your squinted eyes to shield them from the occasional sunbeam that breaks through the thin, fast-moving layer of clouds rolling by overhead and you're staring avidly across the vale, a haunted expression darkening your features. He watches as the wind lifts your hair, buffeting it around your face and when a wayward beam of sunlight shimmers brilliantly off the glossy strands, he huffs and looks away.

The horseman's own hair – weighed down by grime and dirt – hangs stubbornly around his shoulders, as if the wind alone weren't a strong enough force to affect it in any way.

He follows your line of sight to the north, landing upon an archway formed by two, adjacent statues depicting a pair of stone makers that tower hundreds of metres up into the air, their arms raised to hold aloft a spherical boulder, engraved in the centre of which is the unmistakable outline of a  _tree_. It's a gateway, if ever he saw one. Enormous and  _far_  too gaudy, in typical maker fashion.His eyes rove above it and in the distance, he can just make out the faint outline of an impossibly tall tree trunk with branches twisting and spiralling upwards for miles before they disappear beyond a layer thick, grey clouds.

It's a landmark that can be found in every corner of all the galaxies, its roots connect each realm and serve as a portal network, or a bridge to those seeking worlds beyond their own. Every world has its own Tree, all unique in appearance and placement, but it is still the same. There is only  _one_  Tree of Life even though technically, there are  _thousands_. It's a phenomenon Death has never bothered to try and understand. It's just part of the furniture now.

But the object of your abhorrence  _isn't_  the Tree of Life, nor is it the ostentatious gateway. Although with your seemingly endless supply of doe-eyed wonder, he doubts you'd share his sentiment. In fact  _you'd_  probably think the statues were  _impressive_.

No. The thing that captured your attention, stretching between the statues like a highly inconvenient roadblock is a gigantic, writhing black land mass, a hideous, undulating bubo of squirming tendrils and glistening, oily flesh, marring the otherwise bucolic landscape.

And as if he hadn't seen it, as if he hadn't clocked such a disturbing shape the moment he stepped out into the valley, Death casually asks, “What the Hell is what?”

He anticipates the scoff you aim at him, but he's wholly unprepared for you to suddenly let out a yelp and latch onto his bracer a second later, mouth agape whilst you point fervently at the black growth. “Oh,  _ew_! It moved!”

Indeed it had. As you watch, trying to gauge just what in the world you're looking at, a crack of light appears in the centre of the glistening mess, splitting open horizontally like a fissure and widening into a sphere of putrid yellow with something long and dark curving down the centre, not unlike a slitted pupil. At that point, it's with no small amount of horror that you realise you're gaping at an enormous, bulging  _eye_! Then, to make matters worse, it promptly snaps in your direction, the tendrils that form grotesque eyelids pulling apart to zero in on you and Death from all the way across the grassy vale.

The horseman makes a noise in the back of his throat, whereas you – still hanging from his arm like some kind of human shaped limpet – mutter a creative compilation of “Ew!” and “Gross!” with the odd, “Oh that's grim!” thrown into the mix.

After a moment or two spent gawking, you manage to croak, “ _That_  is probably the foulest thing I think I've ever seen.”

You'd also like very much to look away from it, but find you're unable to do so.

Casting his mind back to a time before humanity came on the scene, Death recalls a similar occurrence, of a realm whose entire landscape consisted solely of pulsating, pink flesh. The hills, the trees, even the rocks and residences. One of those hills had opened up, much like this one, to reveal a gigantic, swollen eye that stared at him as he passed by, following his movements, seemingly keen to catch his gaze.

Suppressing an involuntary shudder, the horseman tilts his head towards you and offers, “Not even in my top  _ten_.”

Morbidly curious, you glance up at the underside of his chin and open your mouth to ask if he'll tell you what could  _possibly_  beat this thing to the number one spot, when the writhing mass suddenly lets loose a blood curdling screech. The sound rolls across the vale, rattling the ground as it goes and shaking pebbles free of the cliff behind you. Gasping hard, you take an automatic step behind Death.

“Wonderful,” he remarks snidely with an elaborate eye roll and raises his free hand, the other now bent behind his back, still clasped by your trembling fingers. Several feet away, there's a spectral whinny preceded by Despair suddenly bursting out of the ground in a flurry of green mist. “Isn't this a surprise. We've found yet  _another_  thing for you to be afraid of.”

Although his words are completely accurate, they still strike a delicate place in your heart. The look of hurt that flashes across your face is there and gone faster than he can blink.

Unfortunate then, that the horseman seldom tends to blink at all.

He catches that almost imperceptible twitch of your eyebrows, the flash of your throat as you swallow thickly and the minutest tug of your lips and he's bewildered to find that your expression  _unsettles_  him. Not much, admittedly. But enough that he notices.

It's...odd.

For as long as he can remember, he's been like this.

Teasing at best and downright disparaging at worst. And never once has he wished he could take a snide remark back. Which is probably why the curl of his gut agitates him now, because for the first time in his immeasurably long life, he's struck with the temptation to snatch his words out of the air and stuff them back down his throat.

It occurs to him, after a quick moment of reflection, that usually, his remarks are met with anger, cold indifference, or they're simply ignored altogether.

Oh, he's upset people, certainly. But they'd always be too proud or too irritable to show that his comment had any kind of negative effect. The fact that  _you_  had allowed hurt – however briefly – to creep onto your face leaves Death....not  _ashamed_ , per se, but undoubtedly disconcerted, aware that this is a  _human_  in his company. One who'd just lost everything she's ever known in the span of a day. If anyone deserves to be spared his insensitivity, at least for a little while, it's you.

Death sighs, turning an apology over and over on his tongue. Yet before he can stumble out an awkward ' _Sorry_ ,' you whirl about and stalk purposefully over to Despair, stomping your new boots on the ground to emphasise that you're upset, as if he needed another clue.

“I  _think_ , given the circumstances, my fear is completely rational!” you call back to him over a shoulder.

“Mmmm...”

With the swollen, yellow eye still trained on his every movement, Death finds he's inclined to agree. The horseman trails along behind you, watching closely as you reach up to give his steed's hairless nose bone a friendly scratch and mutter, “What  _is_  that thing anyway?”

At least the wounded note has disappeared from your voice.

Death hums as he approaches Despair's side and pats the saddle, moving back to allow you up first, a move that surprised all parties – the horse, Dust, who'd since taken up his usual perch on the saddle-horn, you and Death himself.

Lips pulling up into a tiny grin, you huff out a quick laugh. “And they say chivalry is  _dead_.” Then  you're suddenly stifling a girlish titter at your own joke.

Huh. Another new feeling, the complete antithesis to the previous. This time, when Death's stomach gives a meagre lurch, it  _isn't_  followed by a sour taste in his mouth. First, you'd been upset by something he said, and now you're laughing because of something he did.

The horseman's eyes roll up to the sky and he grumbles, “Humans,” under his breath, then realises that, before your little jab at his expense, you'd asked him a relevant question.

“That,” he nods to the giant, perversely twisted version of what he can only assume  _was_  a Shadow Lurker, “is Corruption, it's also where  _we_  need to....” He trails off with an amused chuckle, watching you try to mount his horse. “Would you like a hand?”

As he'd been talking, you made several sad attempts to get your leg high enough to reach Despair's stirrup, failing every time. Embarrassed beyond comprehension, you nod, hoping that he won't notice your burning cheeks. “Yes please..”

Death's cold hands slide under your bent shin and, with surprising gentleness, he gives you a helpful leg-up, his fingers hovering just above the back of your thighs until you're properly seated, both of your feet dangling several inches  _above_  the stirrups.

Suddenly, he understands why the makers were so hung up on your size.

Perched upon his comparatively massive horse, it's difficult to ignore just how small you really are.

Mumbling out a word of thanks, you scoot forwards to make room for him at the back. When Death pulls himself up behind you, it's effortless, seamless and sure.

Taking hold of the reins, the horseman barely squeezes his heels and Despair stops trying to bend his head around to nibble your booted toe, instead facing forwards again and ambling lazily over the dry grass, heading for the eastern cliffs and a narrow gap carved right through the centre of the rock face. The impermeable arms of the horseman circled to your left and right provide you with a fleeting sense of security, though you still glance warily at the eye as it trails after you, unblinking. “So...that's Corruption, huh?” Your voice is as tiny as you are, he notes.

“Well, part of it,” he elaborates, “More the  _effects_  of Corruption. I'd wager that used to be a Shadow Lurker, or something of that ilk. Eye's a dead giveaway....”  

Swallowing, you tear your gaze off the slithering, expansive tendrils that seem to beckon you closer enticingly, waving back and forth like airborne leviathans.

“Is that what happened to the other makers?” you croak, “Eideard said it... _changed_  them. Got iside their bodies and minds and made them...bad.”

“I suppose if one were to boil it down, that's essentially what happens, yes.”

Silence again and Death watches you distractedly run a finger over Dust's wing. Then, softly, you murmur, ”Do you think it can corrupt humans?”

The horseman scoffs. “I imagine if it can corrupt the makers, then it should have no problem infecting one, little human. I'm fairly certain Corruption doesn't discriminate, so long as the prey is  _alive_..”

A shudder ripples from the tips of your fingers to your shoulders, travelling through so violently, he feels it against his leather faulds.   
Letting out a soft ' _ah_ ,' Death leans down, his height advantage granting him the leverage to peer around at the side of your face. “You're afraid it'll corrupt  _you_.”

Bowing away from his intrusive gaze, you keep your eyes fixed on the ground passing by and lapse into a deep quiet, at least until Despair finally reaches the valley's end and steps into the craggy notch. There's an unspoken, unanimous agreement that everyone is glad to have shaken the glare of that corrupted eyeball.

High overhead, vines of mottled green tangle together, forming a canopy that stretches between the two cliff faces, effectively blocking out the sun and casting all three of you in a pretty, dappled light. Behind you, Death waits patiently to see if you'll respond. It takes several more moments before you draw in a slow breath, exhale it, and utter quietly, “I don't want to be made  _bad_.”

Despair's hoofbeats echo and bounce around the notch until he sound of running water hits your ears, cutting above his soft clops. The narrow passage opens out a little and you find yourself in an enclosed basin with a waterfall tumbling from the cliff to your right, disappearing beneath a wooden portcullis that bridges a gap in the path over a crystal-clear, sunken lake. To the left, there's a dilapidated, half flooded dungeon carved out of the cliff wall, every stone glistening wet with precipitation.

Wary of an ambush, Death scans the ramparts and extended balconies, his eyes narrowed and focused.

Half of his attention on the human in front of him, half on a suspicious shadow that turns out to be nothing more than a huge, ceramic pot, he casually remarks, “So long as you don't let any corrupted creatures get a hold of you, you'll be fine.”

A skeptical snort jumps out of your nose. “Uh...I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm not exactly the fastest thing on two legs.”

Still perched on the saddle horn, Dust bobs his head - whether in agreement or just because he's a bird – either way, you shoot him a half-hearted glare.

“Well then, I suppose it's a good thing  _I_  am, isn't it?” Death hums coolly, eyeing a ripple that had disturbed the lake's surface, “I won't let anything touch you.”

He had meant it to be ignorable, a throwaway statement. He hadn't even realised there was an underlying significance behind it until you purse your lips, eyes wet and conflicted, and promptly blurt out, “God, I don't  _get_  you.”

Caught off guard by the shift in your tone, Death blinks and drags his attention from the water to peer down at you curiously. “I beg your pardon?”

He abruptly draws back when your hands are suddenly flung into the air, a clear sign of exasperation. “Well, you're just so...so  _contrary_! Everything I say, you've got some smart aleck remark to hit back with, but every now and again, you turn around and say something that could almost be construed as...as  _nice_!”

Leaning over Despair's neck, you run your fingers along the horse's protruding vertebrae and chew on your lower lip, and in a small voice, you murmur, “Like...like, I get that you don't like me because I'm a coward or whatever. But then you'll say and – and  _do_  stuff that makes me think, maybe you  _don't_  not like me. Why can't you just-”

“You're not a coward.”

Several rapid blinks convey your surprise and you almost dislodge yourself from the saddle with the speed at which you swivel around to ogle him. After a few moments of staring at each other, you scrunch your nose up and with a definite crack in your voice, swiftly declare, “Yes I  _am_! I'm afraid of  **everything**! You  _literally_  just said so yourself back there with the - with the Corrupted  _thing_!”

“I-” He falters, casting his mind back.

“And back on the mountain,” you continue accusingly, “The first time I met your horse, you  _called_  me a coward.”

The death mask - blank and impassive as ever – provides you with no indication of his thoughts. Even his burning eyes betray nothing, staring down at you unflinchingly as opposed to yours that widen, resolve faltering until at last, you can no longer meet the horseman's gaze any more than you can stare at the sun for too long. Biting the inside of your cheek, you twist around and face Despair's neck once more.

The moment your back is to him, Death blinks. He  _had_  called you a coward, hadn't he?...

' _I was wrong_ ,' a tiny, irritating voice breathes into his ear.

The horseman opens his mouth - ' _Say it_!' - and slowly lets it fall shut again.

' _ **Now** who's the coward?_ '

From the corner of your eye, you see his finger tap idly on Despair's metal reins.  

Wracking his brain, Death draws in a frigid breath, his chest expanding and pressing firmly against your back as he gently puts, “I  _did_.”

Apparently, you don't pick up on his deliberate use of the past tense because your shoulders slump, head sagging down closer to your chest.

“Let me ask you something,” the horseman declares abruptly, “When you first saw me, you marked me a monster, yes?”

Confused, you raise your head again and squint. “Well, I-”

He clears his throat pointedly and you realise that perhaps being polite  _isn't_  necessary in this instance. Still, uncertain where he's going with this, you tentatively reply, “Okay, yeah. Yes, I did.”

“And when I first spoke to you on that mountain, I had you pegged as a coward.”

Although you certainly can't dispute that, you still grumble, “Yeah, I think we established that..”

At your back, you feel a rumbling laugh reverberate through his chest. “You are perhaps not what I'd call ' _lionhearted_ ,' certainly. But-” He pauses to note the white-knuckle grip you have on the hem of your jumper. “- You  _left_  Tri Stone.”

Failing to see his point, you cock your head back to look at him. “Yeah. So?”

Death patiently appraises you down his nose ridge, his eyes hooded and sage. “A coward would have stayed in the safety of the village, with the makers.”

“I was....tempted, believe me,” you murmur after a moment of quiet thought and, shame-faced, you face the path again.

“But you didn't give  _in_  to temptation. And that makes all the difference.” He falls silent, allowing his meaning to sink in as he thoughtfully regards the top of your head. After several seconds pass again in total silence, he bites down hard on his pride and sniffs, voice as nonchalant and level as he can make it, “I don't think you're a coward  _anymore_.”

Just like that, the fingers trying to catch Despair's wispy mane fall still and rigid in mid air. All the air leaves your lungs.

Death is....definitely  **not**  what – or who - you'd expected. When you first learnt his name, you never expected he would be capable of anything other than cold indifference, apathy in spades and a complete disregard for any and all life. But as you talk with him,  _communicate_  with the Grim Reaper himself and hear the fluctuations of his voice and think back on all the things he's done that – if done by a human – wouldn't have been all that odd, you realise that he may not have been the  _only_  one to judge someone based on what they are.

You a human; He'd taken you for a coward, and you can't fault him for that.

But you in turn, took him – Death – for a monster.

Even after he saved your life, slung you over his broad shoulder and carried you off your dying world. Even when he rescued you from that skeletal beast on the mountain, you'd still been afraid of him. Hell, you still  _are_ , on some level. He just has an  _air_  about him that promises danger, trouble and ill-fortune.

But aside from making a few, careless comments along the way, the fact that he hasn't actually done anything even  _remotely_  monstrous to you, hits you like a tonne of bricks. He even told you he wouldn't let Corruption touch you, and you're mouthing off? He probably didn't ask for this situation any more than you did and on top of that, he's having to deal with you treating him like the bad guy. All too suddenly, you realise that if you're going to be travelling with Death for the foreseeable future, sooner or later you'll have to cut him some slack.

Starting with....

“I-I don't think you're a monster by the way....” you whisper shyly, “Not anymore, I mean. I-If that matters..”  

And to the unflappable horseman's own astonishment, it  _does_. If only because the statement is one he's seldom – if  _ever_  – heard.

Without even discussing it with each other first, all of Creation seemed to have come to a collective consensus regarding Death.

He is  _hated_.

For as long as he can remember, he's been the antagonist in horror stories told by angels to their children of a monstrous spectre who'll steal their souls if they misbehave, who's stolen the life from even the bravest of Heaven's warriors for no reason other than contempt.   
Even  _demons_  find him abhorrent, the hypocrites.   
Then there were the humans, who feared the  _concept_  of Death more than they despised the horseman himself. Although the lines between fear and hatred are so often blurred, sometimes even  _he_  can feel the sting of their dread and he can't help but take it personally.

The truth of the matter is that Death is  _accustomed_  to being the Bogeyman of Creation.   
And the  _firmer_  truth - he wouldn't even argue it, because they're right. The truth is as indisputable as the fact that angels have wings or demons have horns.

He  _is_  hated because he  _is_  monstrous.

The temptation to call you an ignoramus arises out of nowhere, to chide you for being so naïve as to think the creature sitting at your back is anything  _less_  than a monster. But what would the point be in making you afraid of him again? Any fear you harboured before had been natural, not to mention understandable. Good instincts, that one.

Yet, you'd gotten over that fear blindingly fast, faster than he would have thought possible. In the end, he chalked it up to the humans having such a short lifespan. After all, yours is a species whose brains process everything – emotion, pain, change - at astronomical speeds. In the span of a single  _day_ , your opinion of him had apparently undergone a complete about face and he, in turn, is forced to revisit his own opinion of you, and by extent, mankind as a whole. This is the longest, uninterrupted amount of time Death has spent in the company of a human and already, he's beginning to realise that he might  _not_  be as well-versed on the species as he originally thought.

A sudden whicker from Despair snaps Death from the moment of quiet intrigue and he glances up, immediately spotting what the horse wanted him to see. Up ahead, the path forks, and hanging from a thick vine on the left trail are several, hanging sigils, swaying gently back and forth in the breeze and clinking together like metallic wind-chimes. He just about holds back a groan. They're a familiar, if unwelcome sight, heralding the presence of one of the most suspect characters he's ever had the displeasure of interacting with. The horseman briefly wonders if you'll even  _notice_  them.

Clearing his throat, Death tugs the reins and the horse tosses its head, hooves thudding dully on the soft grass as he starts to slow. “Perhaps we are  _both_  more complicated than either of us realised,” he admits distractedly.

“I just thought you deserved to know.”

“Well....I appreciate the sentiment,” he murmurs, adding softly a moment later, “You.... continue to surprise me, you know.”

It's more than that though, and perhaps he's being unfair by not telling you.   
You're proving him  _wrong._

Craning your neck around to squint up into the horseman's red-flecked irises, you ask, “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“Well,” he grunts, shrugging a pale shoulder, “considering not  _much_  surprises me these days....”

Ever so slightly, you perk up, encouraged, even though his way of giving praise is so frustratingly abstruse. “...You know what? I think I'll take that as a compliment....Hey, what's that?”

' _Ah, not so unobservant either. Interesting_.'

You've raised your hand to point up between Despair's ears at the ominous sigils Death had spotted, staring to the left, up a small grassy trail set apart from the main path. At the very end of it, overlooking the nook you'd just passed, is an intricate, square dais, surrounded by the same symbols that hang and sway from the cliff above it.

Drawing the horse to a complete stop, Death casts a wary glance over them, grumbling under his breath. “What is  _he_  doing here?”

“Who?” you start to ask, but he's already sliding onto the ground and trailing his fingers over Despair's neck as he passes, murmuring for the horse to stay put.

“H-hey!” you call, scrabbling to swing your legs over the back of the saddle, “Wait up!” Your descent is far more clumsy and takes twice as long as Death's, all the while you can feel Dust and Despair's eyes on you, both of their heads cocked to one side. Suddenly, just as you drop from the saddle onto the ground, your left boot snags on a jagged scrap of metal sticking out of the stirrup and you're forced to hop around on tiptoes for a moment, trying feverishly to pull yourself free. A loud snort blasts from Despair's nostrils and the crow gives an answering squawk, bobbing his neck up and down several times before you snap, “It's  _not_  funny!” to which you receive an obstinate hiss from Dust.

With a sharp tug, your foot finally rips loose and you stumble, tottering for a moment, arms flailing. Just as you begin to teeter backwards though, you feel cold, solid knuckles press into the small of your back and suddenly, you find yourself being nudged safely upright again.

In a flash, you spin around to sheepishly peer up at Death from beneath your lashes, mortified that he'd witnessed your floundering. “Y-you're still here? I thought you went on ahead.”

Shrugging one, massive shoulder, he states, matter-of-factly, “You asked me to wait.”

“I...yeah..But I didn't think you'd actually -” Death blinks at you, long and slow and you stammer to a halt. “- You know what, never mind. Thanks.”

He harrumphs and sweeps a hand out to his side. “Shall we?”

With that, the horseman turns and starts to stalk up the grassy pathway, one hand resting on the hilt of his scythe.

Crossing your arms over yourself, you scuff your boot against the ground and trundle after him in silence. The closer you get to the raised dais, the less your cheeks burn, replaced slowly by a creeping sense of trepidation. Death still hasn't removed his hands from the weapon, a fact that doesn't go unnoticed by you.

“Hey..What's-”

The words die on your tongue because as you get within a few feet of the square plinth,  _something_  begins to stir.

A pulse of electricity sucks past your ears and raises the hair on your neck as if someone had stuck a static balloon there and then dragged it up through your hair. Seconds afterwards, you jump as pallid, blue smoke erupts from the centre of the dais, billowing up and spilling outwards along the ground to chill your toes. Inside the column of thick mist, half-obscured, is the vague silhouette of a person.

Cowering back a few steps, you're about to duck behind the safety of Death's bulk when you stop and think.  _'Not a coward_ ,' you remind yourself as you set your jaw and puff out your chest, moving to stand  _beside_  the horseman instead. All of a sudden, a rasping chuckle slithers out of the smoke and sends a shiver racing down your spine.

Almost as though it's blown by an ethereal wind, the wispy smog finally begins to thin and disperse.

As the outline of the mysterious figure becomes clearer,  you're abruptly caught in the stomach by Death's large hand and without warning, he shoves you – none too gently – behind himself. Such a move is disturbing because it dawns on you that whoever this stranger is, Death obviously perceives them as a threat. And seconds later, you understand why.....

The last traces of smoke and mist fall away to reveal a creature that immediately drains the blood from your face.

Enormous, charcoal horns with blunt, tattered ends curve up about a ghastly, barely humanoid face, framed by a hooded headdress of darkest violet and trimmed in golden silk. Gleaming teeth taper into wicked-sharp fangs that jut from its angular jaw, a jaw that stretches into a lecherous smile when a pair of cunning green eyes land on the horseman, growing wider still as its gaze draws down to where you're poking your head out from behind a guarding arm.

It locks you in its sights, holds your attention and you press a hand over your mouth, panic rising like a slow tide from the pit of your stomach, realising – horror stricken – what this thing is.

There's no mistaking those horns, the monstrous claws, the vestigial, fleshy winds sprouting from its shoulder blades and the most depraved grin you've ever seen.

It's a demon. Here, right in front of you. Just like the ones who destroyed your home.

Yet to your surprise, where rage should probably coil and churn in your stomach, there is only the cold, empty ache of fear. Gritting your teeth, you try with all your might to be angry, to let fury override the terror.

But it doesn't.

Shaking limbs and clenched fists betray you and the only thing that comes close to matching the dread is shame. Shame at what you are.

In a throaty, slimy voice that curls your toes, it drawls, “Greetings horseman! And welcome.” Leaning back, it spreads its long, gangling arms as though greeting an old friend and your eyes snap down to see that it has no legs, only a tattered skirt adorned with all manner of scrolls, round, glowing lanterns and a thick harness hanging from its skinny waist. “I've been expecting you.”

Judging from Death's tone, you can hazard a guess that this demon does not fall within his purview of ' _friends_.'

“ _Vulgrim_. What brings you crawling out of the shadows?” the horseman grumbles, oblivious to the rapid intakes of breath coming from behind him, nor the little fingers that slide around one of the loops in his belt and grip tight.

The demon chuckles, slowly drifting closer, his greedy eyes flickering from you to Death and back again. “I wouldn't want to lose my most  _valued_  customer. Not to what lurks at the edge of shadows. So here I am, to offer my wares.”

Quivering muscles tense and bristle as the horseman barks, “What do  _you_  know that I don't? I'm not here by  _choice_ , demon.”

“I merely followed the trail of carnage. And when I detected the scent of this....” He pauses to waft a hand beneath his nose, doing an eerie impression of someone who's just smelled an especially good meal. “...delectable little  _morsel_ -”

Your stomach does a somersault.

“- I simply couldn't stay away!”

Before you have time to react, Vulgrim takes his opportunity to glide closer and leans down, peering at your petrified expression, sunken lips pulling taut over too many teeth. “This one is so....new, so  _fresh_! Only the second time around, I'd wager....Mmm. Maybe third.” He sounds too excited, whatever he's talking about and suddenly, at the demon's threatening proximity, your pulse races into overdrive and you find that your legs are no longer adhered to the ground.

Just as Death opens his mouth to warn the merchant away, you  _move_.

He catches the little blur of motion from the corner of his eye, yet instead of going backwards, as he expected, you lunge  _forwards_ clumsily, almost tripping over your own feet whilst you fumble with the sword at your waist.

If the action hadn't been so unexpected, he reckons Vulgrim would never have shot back quite so fast or hold his hands up in surprise when a small, unintimidating blade is promptly shoved under his nose.

“ _Rargh!”_ Your shout of anguish comes out garbled and nonsensical, made only more indecipherable by the wobble in your tone. Spine rigid and teeth bared, you manage to grind out, “ _H-how could you_!?”

Shocked at the unexpected display of ferocity, Death softly calls your name and reaches out to touch your elbow but you rip it away from him, trying to steady your shaking arms to keep the sword trained on the equally bewildered demon's head. Again, quieter this time, you croak, “How  _could_  you?”

Vulgrim's eyes dart from side to side until they settle on Death, silently asking for clarification.

Meanwhile, the horseman has his hand still held out towards you, fingers suspended as he scrutinises the bungling grip you have on your sword and the unsteadiness in your stance. It doesn't take a genius to discover the reason for this outburst. “Y/n,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his mask's nose-bone, “Put that sword down, before you embarrass yourself further. You're no threat to anyone holding it like  _that_.”

Feeling betrayed, you glance at him over your shoulder and blink the moisture from your eyes. “But! But he's a – a demon!”

“He is,” the horseman agrees, nodding sagely, “A demon  _merchant_ , to be precise.”

Perplexed, you gape at him. ‘ _How can he be so calm!_ ’

“His kind, they – they  _killed_  humanity! They destroyed Earth!”

Again, Death nods. “They did.” Then, pointing a rawboned finger at Vulgrim, he adds, “ _He_ , however, did not.”

You look back at the demon and blink, noting how his hands are still raised into the air placatingly, a lump moving down his throat as he swallows. He hasn't attacked you when he could. He very  _easily_  could with how badly you're poised. Licking your lips, you plant your feet more firmly and give him a wary once-over. “He....he  _didn't_?”

Vulgrim, realising that he's in absolutely no danger whatsoever, releases a sharp cackle and swipes a claw across his forehead, the very picture of melodrama. “My, my! Such spirit! How.... _unusual_...” Tapping his fingertips together, he drags his eyes off the tip of your sword and addresses Death, his tone low and business-like. “Let's make a deal...What do you want for her?”

Your head whips around to look at the horseman so quickly, you almost lose your already questionable balance and the sword swings several inches to the left, now pointing at a spot just above Vulgrim's shoulder. Exasperated, Death heaves out an overworked sigh. He'll have to teach you why turning one's back on a prospective enemy  _isn't_  the best idea in the world some other time though, because the demon merchant's hungry gaze has fixed itself on you again while your wide eyes remain locked with Death's, as though you're fully expecting him to just name his price, fork you over and ride off into the sunset with a satchel full of gilt and hands wiped thoroughly clean of responsibility.

In an attempt to hide how tense his shoulders are, he rolls them and regards Vulgrim coolly from beneath heavy-lids. “I don't want anything for her. This particular soul is  _not_  for sale.”

“He wants my  _soul_?” you balk, face paling.  

Ignoring you, the demon visibly deflates and whines, “Are you sure? I could reward you handsomely.”

“I'm  _sure_.” Death's arms fold across his chest and he tips his chin towards you. “Besides, I highly doubt you can offer me anything of  _her_  equivalence.” He must have imagined the tiny, grateful smile on your face because when he looks properly, it vanishes, as if it were never there at all.

In an effort to coax you into lowering your sword, he risks another soft touch to your elbow, this time holding it securely between his thumb and forefinger when you don’t pull away and giving it a gentle tug. “I promise you can put your sword  _down_ , Y/n. As malicious and duplicitous as Vulgrim is, he's a scavenger, not a warrior. I don't believe for a  _second_  that he was among the demon hordes who marched on Earth.”

“Right you are, horseman!” the demon in question praises, turning to you, “Would you believe I've  _never_  actually killed a human?”

Deadpan, both you and Death reply with a firm, “No.”

Undeterred, he places his hands on his chest imploringly. “It's  _true_! Oh, I've collected a soul or two from the dead ones, certainly.” He brings his hands together, forming a cage with his fingers. “After all, one  _must_  be dead before a soul can be captured. But killing a human? Bah! Do you  _know_  how hazardous an occupation that is?”

“Hazardous?” you scoff, but allow Death’s guiding hand to lower your arms as you realise that, although he shares many of the same features as the demons that destroyed your home, this  _Vulgrim_  doesn't seem nearly as murderous as the others.  _Creepy_ , yes. But not murderous. “Your kind seemed to have no problem killing mine from where I was standing?”

“Ah. But as your horseman friend rightly put; I am  _no_  warrior. And a human can be as deadly an adversary as any creature with its back to a wall.” He glances down at you and your trembling arms. “Present company notwithstanding.”

Squinting up at him suspiciously, you tilt your head to one side and slowly ask, “So...you're not going to steal my soul?”  

He seems laughingly appalled by the idea. “And risk losing my best client  _and_  my head!? Hell's bells human, I haven't survived  _this_  long on brawn alone.”

Suddenly, you feel very sheepish. At last dropping the point of your sword away from Vulgrim's chest and letting it stick into the ground, you let out a shaky exhale. “Right. Sorry. I-...I'm sorry.”

The demon's eyes promptly bulge open, his eyelids fluttering madly as though he's never heard the word 'sorry' before in his life, and certainly not when it's directed at  _him_. “Why...is she apologising?” he asks, addressing Death. 

“Because I assumed you were like every other demon and I stuck a sword in your face,” you answer before Death can, “That was kind of high-hat of me. I shouldn’t have done that, I’m sorry.” 

Incredulous, Vulgrim merely gawks at you until, to your right, the horseman snorts, bemused. “Oh, don't apologise. If you were to drop dead right now, he'd snap up your soul before you hit the ground.”

“Alas, once again, his words ring true,” the merchant sighs wistfully, “I have quite the voracious appetite.” Seconds later, he perks up, clapping his oversized hands together and bending down to give you that hungry, predatory stare, his long fingers slowly creeping towards you but stopping short as soon as Death's hand falls pointedly on his scythe. “ _But_ , worry not my little morsel– Er, I- I mean, little  _human_.” He finally backs off and floats over to his dais again. “If Death says you're off the menu, then you're off the menu. I'm more interested in  _building_  bridges than burning them, after all.”

“Yeah,” you agree, giving him a hard, meaningful stare, “Me too.” 

You jump when Death's forearm bumps into you, physically turning your body back in the direction of his horse. “We should be getting on,” he tells you quietly. With a quick nod, you let him push you in front, keeping himself between you and the demon as you retrace your steps back down the path. 

“Oh and by the way!” Vulgrim shouts suddenly, his voice lacking any kind of sincerity when he continues, “My condolences for what happened to Earth!” Stopping abruptly, you blink and turn to look back at him over your shoulder. ‘ _Well..It’s the thought that counts._ ’ 

“Yeah!” you call back around Death, “And I’m sorry again about the whole, sword in your face thing!”

It might just have been a trick of the light, or your over-active imagination, but in that moment, the merchant's grin seems less sinister and more bemused than anything.

Cackling, he lifts a hand to wave you off. “My dear, I simply wouldn't call a day  _successful_  unless I'd had some manner of sharp object thrust into my peripheral.”

Hesitantly returning his wave, you allow yourself to be guided forwards again by the horseman's impatient grunt. Behind you, Vulgrim begins to sink back into his plinth, calling out before his head disappears, “Oh and horseman, if you or your new friend ever have need of my wares, seek me out.” He watches as your larger companion hoists you into the saddle, pulling himself up afterwards. As the bizarre duo disappear around the corner, Vulgrim’s teeth part into a wide, insidious grin. 

“I do  _so_ look forward to seeing you both again.”

\------

For some time after leaving Vulgrim’s hideaway, Death rides in silence, mulling over your first interaction with a demon since you left Earth. All things considered, it could have gone a lot worse. 

“I'm surprised you didn't run him through,” he pipes up conversationally, ignoring the tiny flinch that shakes you from your own musings at the sound of his voice. “In fact, I'm almost sad you didn't.”

Furrowing your brow, you reply, “Then why'd you stop me?”

“Ha! Besides the fact I didn’t think you’d ever be  _able_  to with the way you held that sword?... Because he hasn't really done anything to warrant us killing him. Not yet, at least. And his wares are – to an extent –  _somewhat_  useful.”

Finally, after winding your way through what seemed like the ceaseless, high-walled passage, the cliffs finally come to an abrupt end and you’re suddenly greeted by soft sunlight filtering through a luscious canopy of green and golden tree leaves. 

Up ahead stretches a vast, spacious wood. Several ruined structures are dotted between the trees, vestiges of the maker civilisation lost to corruption when it ploughed through their land like a dark tidal wave, leaving a sort of kenopsia in its wake.

Casting a sad smile at the twisting roots and leaves fluttering gently to the ground, you heave out a longing sigh. “This place is so beautiful...” 

Behind you, the horseman has already spotted several threats, all skulking about between the shadows of the trees. “Hm. Don’t be fooled. There are far worse things out here than demon merchants.” As if on cue, something  _big_  roars loudly, making its presence known and from behind a thick trunk, an enormous, bulky creature made up entirely of cobbled _stone_  tromps into view.

Just like that, your wanderlust dies and you shrink back involuntarily underneath Death’s bristling chest. He spares you a cursory glance as he unsheathes his scythes, feeling Despair quiver in anticipation, ears pricked sharply forwards and at the same time, Dust shoots off his perch and into the sky with a resounding caw. 

“Hold on tightly,” Death murmurs, “Keep your head low and don’t let go of that saddle.” He reaches around with one hand and grabs both of yours, moving them down until your fingers latch reflexively around the metal pommel. “It seems getting to the Cauldron won’t be a simple ride after all. Are you ready?”

“Not in the least.”

“Good,” he smirks, urging Despair into a hard canter, “No warrior worth their salt is ever ready for their first few tastes of  _real_  battle.” 

Thundering along through the leaf-strewn woods, Despair releases a squeal of excitement and charges into a breakneck gallop, the equally fearsome rider poised and ready to swing his deadly scythes as they fly towards their first destination; The Cauldron. 


	7. Diamond in the Rough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the age old adage that transcends species; Our hero doesn't believe in love at first sight until he sees 'The One.'  
> Karn had always considered himself to be the hero of his own story.  
> But then, you came along.

Far off in the western corner of the Forge Lands, beyond a ravine known to most as Charred Pass, where the ground has been burned black by a never ending barrage of fireballs spewed from the belly of an active volcano, is a lone maker, caught up in the rush of a heroic battle.

Or at least, he  _imagines_  it must look very heroic  _and_  extremely brave. Perhaps even the  _bravest_  a maker has ever looked. 

 

\---

Karn; by  _far_  the youngest maker in Tri Stone – if not the whole realm – has taken it upon himself to single handedly battle an army of Corrupted construct warriors; immense creatures of living stone that have been stitched and stuck together by thick, winding strands of Corruption, the inky substance seeping deep into their calcified bodies and connecting every boulder like writhing, ebony veins. 

Surrounded by a moat of molten lava, the maker whirls gracefully across the Cauldron's stone courtyard, swinging left and right with one arm behind his back and the other clenched tight around his trusty, double-faced hammer,, 

Well..  _Graceful_  might be a bit of a stretch.

There has to be dozens –  _No_! -  _Hundreds_  of the reanimated golems, and he's ploughing through great swathes of them as if they were little more than glass figurines and he, a raging stalker.  

The young maker bellows out a whooping battle cry and brings the flat head of his gigantic hammer down on the  _eighth_  construct that hurtles towards him.

... _So_ , he might have to embellish a few of the facts a little when he returns to the village. After all, a good story just isn't worth telling unless the hero – that's  _him;_  Karn – is pitted against perilous odds.

Why, by the time he's finished regaling the others with this epic tale, they'll be singing his praises for centuries to come, no doubt.

Head shaking to flick away the beads of sweat trickling down his furrowed brow, Karn raises a thick, metal boot and stomps it over the back of a downed construct, grinding the stone-fleshed warrior beneath his heel.

That is....if the others even  _believe_  him...

Not that they ever do. Even when he  _is_  telling the truth.

' _Unreliable_ ,' is what Alya called him once, among other things. And that was to his face! Maker  _knows_  what she's said behind his  _back_.

Like air rushing out of a popped balloon, Karn visibly deflates, his ears drooping and face falling as he tries to swing at another construct on his left. But in light of his momentary lapse in concentration, he overshoots, misses, and the beast is able to duck beneath the hammer's handle, bringing it close enough to pound a vicious stone club onto his gloved knuckles. Despite the added protection of hardy leather  _and_  the construct's much smaller stature, those things can pack one  _hell_  of a wallop.

With a yelp, he recoils sharply, shaking out the bruised hand and shooting his assailant a snarl, lips pulled back to show off a pair of gleaming fangs.

Luckily, although numerous and fiercely relentless, the reanimated constructs aren't particularly fast. Or bright, for that matter.   
Releasing a prematurely triumphant gurgle, it lunges at his leg, this time aiming for an unarmored tendon on the inside of his knee.

Having pre-empted the move, Karn lets out a derisive snort, and simply steps aside.

The stone warrior flies past him and lets out a bewildered grunt as it crashes to the ground in a heap. Wasting no time, the maker swiftly dispenses righteous justice for his hand, raising the hammer high over his head and plunging it into the struggling golem with the force of a falling meteorite, garnering no small amount of satisfaction from the way its body explodes into smithereens, scattering rock fragments all over the courtyard.

“Oof! Bet  _that_  hurt!” he mocks, slinging his hammer over a shoulder and puffing out a rough exhale. Muscles twitching from the lingering adrenaline, he turns in a wide circle to survey the damage. 

Covering every inch of the hard ground are the splintered remains of a dozen or so  _ex-_ corrupted constructs, freed from their tainted bonds only by the cold embrace of death.

Heaving a weary sigh, Karn stretches out his back and grunts as several of his overworked joints click and pop in protest. Briefly, he laments being so thorough in his swathe of destruction and mayhem. There isn't a single, recognisable piece left intact that he could have taken back with him to the village as a trophy. A nice head or two would have definitely added to his story's authenticity.

“Ah well,” he announces to the lonely courtyard, “Can't be helped.”

Glancing around in the vain hope that one of the other makers had inexplicably turned up to witness his glorious victory, Karn’s ears prick forward, only to droop again when he realises that, no, he’s  _still_  on his own. 

As usual.

All of a sudden, motion from the corner of his silvery-grey eyes catches the maker's attention and he tenses, fists coming up to curl around his hammer and hauling it back into two hands. Lips curling and arms quivering with pent up anticipation, Karn wheels about to face the stone steps leading up onto the entryway.....

...and is promptly sent tumbling head over heels in love.

There's a girl standing at the edge of the courtyard, staring up at him, her eyes bright and wide and curious. On her feet, she wears a pair of big, brown, clunky boots which aren't at all in keeping with the rest of her tidy clothes. The hair on her head is a dishevelled, windswept mess, as though she'd been running flat out for hours on end and has yet to find the time to flatten it down. But by far the aspect that holds him utterly spellbound is her open face, beset just slightly by a shadow of nervousness and fatigue that lingers around her eyes and lips, but otherwise bursts with wonder. And the fascinated, inquisitive expression she’s aiming at him is no doubt a direct echo of his own.

Karn watches, dumbstruck, as her delicate lips give a twitch, then a cautious smile begins to lift her cheeks and as a result, his stomach does an involuntary somersault.  

Incidentally, having never actually been in love before, he can only guess that  _this_  must be what it feels like – stepping off the edge of a cliff in the pitch black of night with absolutely  _no_  idea what's waiting for him at the bottom.

In fact, falling in love doesn't seem at  _all_  like Eideard described in his tales. He  _never_  mentioned this sensation of tumbling into plummetless uncertainty. 

Thousands of years ago, when younglings were a frequent sight in the forge lands, Karn – too old and too proud to count himself amongst them - would linger within earshot as their elder parked himself on one of the stone ledges in Muria's garden and regaled the littlest ones with stories of grand adventures, world-ending battles and doomed paramours.

The latter stories interested Karn the least.

They just seemed so farfetched. All that nonsense about legends like Halldora and Eda, two of the most powerful shield-maidens in maker folklore whose eyes met over a blood-soaked battlefield and they knew – in a single glance - that they were destined to be together.

Karn remembers vividly scoffing at that one.

How could they know they were in love with just  _one_  look? And if that were the case, how did they manage it without their palms sweating and breath catching in their throats? 

Now though, staring down at the vision treading carefully in through the courtyard's entrance, he sends Eideard a quick, mental apology because evidently, the Old one had been right. Love at first sight  _isn't_  such a preposterous notion as Karn had originally thought.

So here he is, standing with his elbows pressed tight into his sides and feeling a lot like a deer in the headlights, rooted to the spot by  _her_  resplendent gaze. Suddenly, he blinks.

He hasn't got the first clue as to what  _she_  is.

He could  _almost_  mistake her for an angel, were it not for the obvious lack of wings, a total absence of self-righteous superiority and her face  _isn't_  schooled into that permanent, supercilious scowl the birds constantly seem to wear.

She's certainly not a demon, that much is undeniable. What’s more, she still has her skin, hair and she's surrounded by a healthy, radiant glow. So that ticks undead off the list.

Karn may not be the most intelligent of makers, by his own admission, but there are a couple of things he's almost certain of: Her face is etched with a story he's never heard, her eyes haunted by hidden nightmares and  _he_  is hopelessly, ridiculously smitten.  _Whatever_  she is, she’s got him. She’s got him  _good_  and all it took was one glance. 

She continues to regard him, a shy grin playing at the edges of her mouth until a moment later, his ears are perking up at the sound of her voice, vibrant and musical and chock  _full_  of so much ingenuousness, his heart gives a noticeable throb. “Wow,” she breathes, “Dude, that was  _amazing_!”

To his rapidly increasing distress, all Karn can muster up in response is a doltish, “I – Er...Whu?” and almost instantly, he wants to go off, dig himself a deep hole and bury himself inside it.

But her friendly, open-hearted eyes only shine with mirth at his stumble and she gestures towards the piles of rubble strewn about his feet, growing increasingly more animated as she speaks.  

“Ah, sorry. S'just that we saw you fighting those things on our approach! When that last one nearly got you, but you just moved out of the way and pummelled it like it was nothing?” She emphasizes her point by smacking a fist into her open palm before looking up at him again, grin widening. “ _That_  was amazing.”

“A-...Amazing?”

_'Oh Maker have mercy, now she's gone and done it.'_

Karn has been many,  _many_  things in his life, but he's never  _once_  been amazing. He's been a 'pest,' a 'loudmouth, 'in the way,' and 'a danger to everyone around him.' But  _never_  amazing.

The young maker isn't prepared for the unexpected lurch as his heart throws itself against his rib cage presumably in an attempt to get closer to the object of its newfound affection. He actually has to discreetly slide a hand over his chest in case she notices the organ thrashing against his skin. Hell, he's half convinced she can already  _hear_  it.

Karn's tongue peels away from the roof of his mouth and he clears his throat to try and repair a remaining scrap of dignity. However, at that moment, a new voice twitches his ear and makes him jump, solely because he hadn't realised that anyone else had even  _been_  there.

“Not  _another_  one...” it grumbles brusquely.

Karn gives himself a quick shake to clear the fog that had settled like a warm blanket over his mind and finally manages to roll his mystified gaze from the woman to a much larger, much more ominous being at her side; one that he recognises almost instantly.   
The sight of a mouthless, bone-white mask snaps him out of his stupor and he breathes, “A rider?  _Here_?”

No sooner had the words left his tongue than a rumble suddenly moves the ground underfoot and the strange woman throws her arms out, steadying herself on the horseman and exclaims, “Good god! What on Earth was  _that_?!”

Any lingering wonderment falls from Karn's face. He recognises the rumble's significance first and groans aloud, eyes darting around the courtyard. “Ah, maker’s bones. Thought I took care of you lot already!”

As they had done before, the thick slabs of stone begin to shake and rattle as constructs burst through the cracks between them, scrabbling away at solid rock to force their own, vitrified bodies inlaid with ink black tentacles up and out of the ground.

Karn's eyes narrow, only to widen again moments later when a soft, gasped whimper leaps from the mouth of the little being beside the horseman. He glances down, ears flattening against his skull at the sight of the girl’s body turning rigid, her tiny chest heaving up and down as she fumbles with something at her side. He doesn't get to see what it is though because the next thing he knows, he's meeting Death's burning glare and a silent understanding passes between them, unmistakable in its meaning.

A shadow creeps over the maker's eyes, his brows drawing together into a tight, determined frown. Giving a hasty nod, he shifts, turning away and taking a few, gigantic steps backwards until both the girl  _and_  Death are bathed in his immense shadow. At the same time, the horseman whips out his formidable scythes and angles himself towards the outer wall. There's a small noise of protest from the girl that sends a beat shooting across Karn's chest when she suddenly finds herself being shoved, bullied and prodded backwards, crowded between the maker and horseman who stand fast and face the slowly approaching wave of corrupted constructs.

Chest puffed out and jaw set, Karn bends his head around to swiftly throw the petite thing a cocky smirk. “Stay behind me!” he winks, “I'll take care of this.”

The young maker can hardly believe his luck!  _Finally_ , a chance to prove he can be a hero. Heroes protect the small, don't they?

Just then, the boldest of the golems raises its stone club into the air and bellows out its gravelly rallying cry and the rest of them follow suit, pounding their fists against rock-hard chests and lumbering forwards all at once, straight at the trio in the centre of the courtyard.

“Come on then!” Karn stamps his metal boot on the ground a few times, hoping to intimidate, while the horseman merely rolls his eyes and plants his feet more firmly. As the first of the constructs charge within swinging range, Maker and Nephilim alike explode into murderous action.

\-----------------------------------------------------

The new maker had to be the youngest you'd seen so far, though he's no less enormous than the others. Not from where  _you're_  standing, head just a few inches shy of his knee. Unlike Eideard and Thane,  _this_  one doesn't sport an impressive, luxuriant beard. Rather, any hair that might have adorned his face has been shaven close to the skin, leaving a dark dusting of stubble on his head and chin, sweeping along his jaw to the base of his ears. Around his neck is a striped cowl of deep viridian, the same colour as his tunic which is nipped in by a wide belt, strewn with all sorts of pockets, pouches and satchels. A heavy, leather backpack is strapped to his robust shoulders, both of which are littered with long, pale scars rather than the forge burns you'd seen on Alya and Valus.  On your approach to the Cauldron, you'd spotted him stampeding across a round-walled courtyard and flattening a vast throng of constructs with a gargantuan hammer, somehow  _larger_  than Thane's axe.

Even from a distance, the display was – as you'd said – amazing.

In fact, you'd much rather be watching  _this_  fight from a distance too, not sandwiched between the Grim Reaper and a literal giant.

You stand stock-still in place, half crouched and gawking as the horseman's arms whip through the air in an impressive whirlwind of motion. He hurls his twin scythes outwards, sending them spinning in a wide arc to cleave the heads from two of the golems before they curve right back into their wielder's hands, not  _dis_ similar to a pair of deadly boomerangs.

He barely moves his feet, tilting on his heel every now and then which gives you the impression that he isn't used to fighting stationary like this. Three more corrupted constructs burst out of the ground a little too close to him, shifting one of the stone slabs he's balanced on and forcing him to jump to one side. The first grabs at his boot before it's even pulled itself free of the rock and Death's shoulders grow tense, rooted to the spot by one construct as the other two throw themselves into him at the same time, no doubt hoping to bring their opponent down by overwhelming him.

One of the remaining brutes that had been patiently hanging back from the carnage, waiting for the best opportunity to strike, realises that Death's attention is momentarily elsewhere. Its cumbersome head pivots slowly over to you and you watch as it tilts to the side, assessing you before attacking. The most unnerving aspect of the motion is that it implies  _this_  one is smarter than the others.

The construct has spotted its enemy's weakness within seconds, zeroing in on the soft spot, the vulnerability of the group. Even though it lacks any visible eyes, you still shudder,  _feeling_  rather than seeing its hateful gaze cut through to your soul, sharp as a knife. It stalks around to Death's right, allowing its corrupted brethren to feel the sting of his blades instead, until it lingers in the gap left bare between horseman and maker, your exposed flank. Realising its sinister intent, your jaw drops open around a scream, but it's as though your tongue has been coated in lead. All that comes out is a pitiful whine.

Like a gravelly bullet, the construct bounds into sudden motion and you blanch, frenziedly pulling your sword free of its scabbard and trying to bring the blade level with the creature's chest. It raises it's boulder of a fist into the air above you, ready to pummel you into an early grave.

Sucking in a gasp, you squeeze your eyes shut and wince as a rush of air whizzes past your nose....

….An earth-shattering boom lifts you clear off the ground, only to crash back down again with a startled yelp. Blinking your eyes open and staggering for a moment, you glance up to see that in the few seconds between your gasp and the construct's blow, the young maker has swung around and smashed his hammer down  _hard_  on top of it. The hard, metal face of the weapon rests flat against the stone, mere inches from the toes of your boots.

Gobsmacked, your heart trembling away in a dark corner of your chest, you watch as he lifts the hammer again, chunks of debris falling like dry rain on your head. When you twist to meet his gaze, you're surprised even further to see that worry has replaced the confident smirk he'd tossed your way just minutes ago.

“You alright?” he pants, ears pinned back against his head.

On autopilot, you gulp loudly and offer a shaky nod, opening your mouth to reply, but movement behind him snaps your attention between his legs.  _Another_  construct, bigger than the rest of them with dark tendrils flaring from its shoulders and neck, is lurching straight for his exposed back. Instead of a club, this one wields a long, rusted blade in its oversized hand – a blade that's aimed straight at the base of the maker's spine.

For someone who tends to overthink a lot of her decisions after they've been made, you don't put a whole lot of thought into your next one.

An eerie feeling – the same you'd felt back in Father Michael's church – washes over you. You'd felt it when you saw Death, at the time who you  _thought_  was a fellow human, and you can feel it now. At a speed you hadn't known you could reach, you've gripped the sword in your hands and dived beneath the maker's cloth hauberk. “Oi! What're you-”

You're vaguely aware of a startled shout rumbling from the body above and the horseman barking your name, but you're already too far gone, too focused on the corrupt warrior to register the tight edge in Death's voice.

You burst out from between the giant legs and lift your sword, pointing it as steady as you can at the first vulnerability you find.

The neck.

Thick, oily tendrils dig into the golem's torso, stretching up and wrapping around its boulder head to keep the two connected together. It's into that stoneless gap between the body and face that you bury your blade up to the hilt, letting out a very unimpressive, garbled yell.

The golem, startled at the sight of a tiny, fleshy  _some_ thing barrelling towards it from under a maker's tunic, slows and all of a sudden  _jerks_  to a stuttering halt, finding a small sword sticking out the back of its neck. If it had any eyes, it would have blinked them, hard.

The sword and its wielder, though neither are at all daunting to look at, managed to sever the crucial strand of Corruption tying the head to its body and if the construct wasn't utterly brainless to begin with, it might have taken umbrage to meeting such a humiliating end. As it is, with nothing but a solid hunk of stone where a brain ought to be, it merely shudders once, teeters forwards and releases a final, rumbling moan. The heavy load brings it crashing to its knees, forcing you to stumble back and tug the sword out as you go, gaping dumbly as the golem's head wobbles, then tumbles down from its shoulders, bouncing off the huge chest before it drops heavily to the ground and cracks clean in two.

The volcano chooses that moment to give out a bellowing rumble, as if your impromptu slaying of a monster thrice your size had warranted a round of applause.

Gulping down desperate lungfuls of air, you hesitate a further second before exhaling loudly, your body folding in half as you rest your head on the pommel of the sword, tip stabbed into the ground for stability.

Corruption however, robbed of its host, is less inclined to suffer such a defeat.

All of a sudden, your head snaps back up as the black ooze begins to wiggle and squirm, a high pitched screech ringing out of an unseen mouth. It moves as a whole, coagulating onto the shoulders of the construct before it slips and pools into the depression where a head used to be like a sentient, bubbling puddle of viscous tar.

And then, it rises as one, stretching from the neck up and elongating into a thick, wet tendril, rearing back like a snake ready to strike. There are no eyes to meet, but you stare up at the rounded tip, knowing that it's staring right back, filled up with hate and malice as opposed to your horror and alarm.

You have all of a second to realise what it's planning before it suddenly strikes, moulding its head into a piercing spine that it aims directly at your vulnerable chest.

There isn't any time to think. Your hand remains frozen around the hilt of your sword, instinct screaming for you to move but your brain remains empty, a husk awaiting instruction from its host, and you have none to give it. There isn’t even the time to  _scream_  but you give it your best shot. However, as soon as your jaw drops and you suck down half a breath, a familiar, rawboned hand clamps around your shoulder and wrenches you backwards.

Death hurls you to the ground, out of his way and out of the rogue corruption's reach. You land painfully on your arm and cry out, dropping the sword with a loud clang.

Behind you, the horseman's scythes make short work of the liquid ooze. He drives them clean through its host's body until the rancid stuff gives out a final shriek, shudders and collapses in thick globules, splashing to the floor and seeping through the grout, finally silent.  

Placidity settles over the courtyard, save for the occasional hiss and spit of the lava flowing around in the burning lake far beneath your feet.

After a minute or two, a slow whistle to your left breaks the silence. “By the  _Stone_!” the maker breathes, “That was....was-”

Suddenly, Death cuts him off, rounding on you with eyes brimming with explosive rage. “Foolish!? Idiotic!?  _Blindingly_  stupid!?”

Startled by his sudden ferocity, you try to back-peddle along the ground but he marches over to you and roughly grabs the scruff of your jumper, jerking you onto your feet, taking hold of one of your arms and lifting it away from your body, eyes narrowed suspiciously as they inspect you from head to toe.

“Death!” you try to protest, more embarrassed than nervous at this point. However, he puts one of his cold hands on your forehead and tilts it back, peering unscrupulously into your wide eyes.

“Death!” you bark again and grab his wrist, pushing it up to duck out from beneath it. Retreating to a safer distance, you brush yourself down and shoot him a wary frown. “What was  _that_  for?!”

His fingers twitch and he narrows his eyes back at you, thoroughly displeased. “That corruption came  _damn_  well near enough to touch you,” he retorts sharply, “I thought I  _told_  you not to let it close!”

“But-!”

“What if you'd been corrupted?” he continues, blatantly disregarding your attempted objection, “You know, difficult though it may be to believe, I  _wouldn't_  actually enjoy putting you down if that were the case.”

“If you would just  _listen_ -”

“You may well be the last human left alive. What were you th-”

“WILL YOU LET ME FINISH!”

The shriek that bursts from you without warning smacks the horseman square in the jaw, knocking any more words of anger off his tongue and startling him into silence.

Meanwhile, staying wisely out of the argument, the young maker winces at the volume, his ears twitching in time to your echoing voice as it bounces and reverberates around the mountainside.

You stick your chin out and tilt it at Death, chest heaving and glare hardening. “I was trying to stop it from corrupting  _him_!” You jab a finger at the startled maker. “He didn't see it because he was busy saving me from a different one! What was I supposed to do? Just  _let_  it stab him first?”

Right as Karn opens his mouth to claim that he knew the golem had been there all along, Death's head snaps in his direction and he balks, glancing away from his fierce stare.

For several, tense moments, the horseman switches his focus from your timid face to the young maker, then down at the dead construct until eventually, his whole body seems to deflate. Eyeing you warily, he mumbles, “You're  _certain_? You're certain it didn't touch you?”

You shake your head.

The horseman's chest swells and shrinks with a slow breath, aiming his harsh glare at the construct's severed head before his expression softens a little, barely enough to notice, and in a voice so gentle you can scarcely hear it over the distant rumbling from the volcano, he says, “Well done,” appraising you coolly.

Bowing your head, you rub sheepishly at one arm and turn to the maker, only to find him already staring down at you with a senseless smile pushing at the corners of his lips. When he notices you watching though, his titanic shoulders tense and he subtly snaps his head back to look up at the sky, eyes following the movements of a random cloud. “Oh – would you look at tha'....” he mutters distractedly.

Tentative in the face of a stranger now that the greater danger has passed, you stoop down, retrieve your discarded sword, pause to straighten out your jumper and venture a little closer, stopping once you're several feet from his metal boots.

His gaze roves down from the sky and he blanches at how much closer you've moved, looking up at him with those big, curious eyes. “Hello,” you chirrup.

“Uh...Hullo.” Drawn by a dull glint, he absently glances down to your hands. The moment Karn registers what you're holding onto, all the colour rushes back to his face, with a little extra it would seem, given the flush that tinges his cheeks and ears a soft rouge.

Rocking back on your heels, you force yourself to stand a little straighter so as not to betray your nerves and try to meet his eye, a difficult task considering he's no longer looking at you. “Hey, thanks for saving me back there.”

The maker doesn't say a word, only continues to stare at the sword in your hand.

“Um. You okay?” you ask, half as a general inquiry and half because he hasn't blinked yet.

Ever so slowly, mouth hanging slightly agape, he shakes his head from side to side. “No, no. I'm....M' Karn...”

You blink at him, thrown for a second before your lips quirk up and you snort.

At the sound of your amusement, he finally tears his eyes off the sword, realising what he'd said and immediately shakes his hands through the air, stammering, “Oh! N-No, I mean –  _I'm_  okay!  _You're_  Karn!  _Ach_ , no! I meant-” Mortified, he pinches his broad, flat nose between thumb and forefinger, slowly sighing, “ _I'm_  Karn.”

Your smile has been replaced by a full blown grin.

It feels good, having your mouth stretched open wide like that again.

“Well, it's very nice to meet you Karn. I'm Y/n.” Saying his name out loud clicks something together in your brain and you suddenly gasp. “Oh,  _you're_  Karn!”

“Ye'v heard of me?” he chirps, blinking in surprise before shaking his head and swiping a thumb beneath his nose. “I mean,  _course_  ye'v heard of me!”

“Yeah, Thane mentioned you. It's nice to finally meet you in person,” you reply warmly.

A pang of jealousy slugs him unexpectedly in the gut - jealousy that  _he_  hadn't been the one to meet you  _first_.

Hesitant, your hands wring around the hilt of your sword until you finally hold it up for him to see. “Um, I think I found something of yours.”

“Heh. Yeah....yeah, you..you did.” Rubbing the back of his neck, he gestures at it with his chin, coughing softly. “How – er.  How'd you find that then?”

“Oh, well, Thane wouldn't let me leave the village without a weapon, so I dug around in a crate and just....sort of found it, I guess.”

The maker's eyebrows shoot up his forehead. “Ol' Thane kept that? Huh. Thought Valus'd melted it down for  _scrap_.”

Taking a breath, you're about to tell him that that's exactly what the warrior had said, but decide against it when you see Karn's pleasantly surprised expression. Instead, you purse your lips and shrug. “Welp. Apparently not!”

He falls quiet and gazes at you for several seconds whilst you chuckle awkwardly. It occurs to you that he might be waiting for you to give the blade back. After all, he  _did_  craft it and supposedly thought it lost. Now, he probably wants it returned.

Hurriedly unclipping the sword belt, you ask, “Oh, do you want it back?” and hold it out for him to take only to jerk back a moment later when the enormous man suddenly raises his burly hands and shakes them frantically in front of you.  

“Oh no! You can keep it, s'yours!” As he speaks, he takes an involuntary step forwards, freezing with a grimace the instant you stumble away from him, worry etched between your brows.

“S-sorry!” he stammers and retreats again, tugging at the scarf around his neck, “Didn't mean to scare you! M'just..surprised!”

You quirk your head, heartbeat slowing. “Surprised? Why?”

“You could've chosen any weapon out of Thane's arsenal, and you chose that one?”

Frowning, you turn a quizzical squint onto the sword. “Yeah? What's wrong with it? You made it, didn't you?”

He gives you an incredulous look and glances from side to side, as though he's waiting for you to reach some sort of conclusion on your own. When you still look as lost as ever, he bobs his head and carefully drawls, “ _Aye_ ,  _that_  would be what's wrong with it.”

Without missing a beat, you harrumph and take a step closer, brushing his self deprecating comment aside easily. “Ah, no artist is ever happy with their own craft.  _I_  happen to think it's great.”

Behind you, Death crosses his arms, sporting an expression that falls flatter and flatter with every passing second. ' _If this maker turns any redder, he'll explode_.'

Oblivious to the horseman's inner monologue at his expense, Karn audibly gulps. “You do?”

Tutting, your grin widens. “Yeah, course I do. It killed that golem, didn't it?”

“Aye-” He laughs breathlessly, glancing over at the pile of rubble. “-Aye, it did.” From the ground, you watch his face go through several different expressions as he stares at it, working a tusk between his upper lip before he looks back at you and simply blurts, “Can I ask you a question?”

Death has to resist the urge to throw his head back and groan.

A little self conscious under his sudden, excited gaze, you rest your hands on your hips and shrug. “ _Okay,_ Iguess?”

Once again, he seems to struggle through another couple of expressions, from ecstatic to nervous, doubtful and back again, until at last, he drops to one knee so heavily, you have to throw your arms out for balance when the ground shudders beneath your feet. “What  _are_  you? Exactly?”

Now it's your turn to be surprised. “Oh! Well, I'm...I'm just a human. You've never seen a human before?”  

“Ach! A  _human_! Of course!” He thunks a hand against the side of his head. “That makes more sense, sorry.” Resting one forearm over his bent knee, the young maker gives you a slow once-over, starting at your boots and ending at the hair on top of your head. “No, I've never met a human, heard about you though. Probably should have connected the dots.”

“Yes, and your ignorance doesn't show. At  _all_ ,” Death grumbles, at last electing to break up whatever odd little greeting is happening here. He steps up next to you, eyeing the maker boredly for a minute before declaring, “You're different than the others...” Then, leaning back and placing a hand on his cocked hip, he adds, “Less pleasant on the eyes, for one.”

You shoot the horseman an exasperated glare whereas the maker simply huffs through his nose, brow drawing together. Not wanting to lose face in front of the first human he's ever met, he retorts, “Feh! I could say no less for  _you_.”

“Death,” you interject before someone decides to take real offence, “this is Karn. He made my sword!”

Death casts his calculating eyes up and down the giant and hums dismissively. “So I gathered.”

Karn plasters a grin back on his face as he pushes himself upright again and stretches his arms up towards the sky, biceps flexing imposingly. Peeking one eye open, he's put out to discover that you're too busy trying to stuff the sword back into its sheath to notice his impressive display.

Faltering for just a second, he quickly drops his arms, hoists the thick, leather belt up higher on his waist and clears his throat, effectively getting your attention. “Aye, you've probably heard folks around town calling me 'Pup,' or 'Lad.' But, uh...” He scratches his chin stubble and sends you a shy smile. “But I prefer my own name.”

' _S'pecially the way you say it,_ ' he thinks to himself.

“Pup it is then”

Karn blinks, then shrinks.

Sparing the smug horseman a dirty glare, he stuffs his hands under his armpits and shrugs. “As you will. Matters not to me.” The dark scowl falls away as soon as he catches your eye again. “So, what're you two doing here?”

“We took a wrong turn,” Death quips, “Now it seems we're stuck here with the rest of you.”

“No, I mean - what're you doing  _here_ , at the Cauldron? Didn't you hear? It fell to Corruption fair long ago.”

A fleck of burning ash flutters out of the sky to land on the horseman's shoulder. He watches the feeble embers flicker and die as they touch his cold skin before raising a hand and nonchalantly brushing it off. “I'll take my chances. Your elder seems to think that  _I'm_  the best hope you have of restoring the mountain's fire.”

“That's why I'm here!” Karn exclaims and taps his chest enthusiastically, “I came here for that self same purpose!”

“Really?” you chirp.

The young maker practically glows under the warmth of your impressed stare. Lifting his chin and hooking his thumbs into the backpack's straps, he sniffs, “Oh, aye. Figured  _I'd_  pop the cork, so to speak. You know, be the hero.”

“So why haven't you?”

“Whassat now?”

Karn falters, his focus moving back to the horseman, who blinks languidly up at him and repeats, “Why  _haven't_  you then?”

“Oh..I – er...Well, I..” He trails off into an awkward silence, painfully aware of your curious eyes peering up at him. “Well, I  _tried_!” he insists eventually, “But the Cauldron is locked up well and tight, and the way through is swallowed by fire!”

Just then, Karn's ears perk back up and he sweeps a proper look over the horseman. “Say...You look capable enough. Perhaps  _you_  can find a way. I'll wait here with...with Y/n and guard the entrance.”

An explorer at heart, first and foremost, Karn's natural curiosity has been gnawing away at his belly from the moment he first laid eyes on you and he'd be lying if he said he hasn't been itching to learn as much as possible - although the prospect of spending time alone with you sets his heart thundering and causes the palms of his hands to grow slick with sweat. Still, this could be the perfect opportunity to-

“Oh, I'm going with Death.”

Now, as most people do, Karn would like to consider himself a fairly composed maker,  _definitely_  not the kind that chokes on their own spit and has to thump themselves in the chest several times while a radiant human and glowering horseman watch on.

Coughing and spluttering, he eventually manages to blurt, “You  _what_?”

Casting him a bemused smile, you repeat, “I'm going with him.”

“ _Are_  you now?” the horseman muses beside you.

Your fists clench and flex for a moment, glancing tentatively between the Cauldron's ominous front doors and back to him several times until your mouth sets into a firm line and you give him a tight-lipped nod. “Yup.” To stay behind means to be still. To be still means to think and to think means to dwell....You dread the stillness, dreaded it more than you dread whatever lies in wait within the Cauldron.. It leaves you no protection from your ghosts. You'll have to face them eventually, of that you have no doubt. But not  _yet_.

“Are you sure?” he presses, turning to face you, peering down into your darting eyes, his own unblinking. It suddenly occurs to you that you might be undergoing some kind of test. “I never said you couldn't change your mind,” he continues, tone unreadable.

At your back, the maker shifts noisily, worrying at his lower lip.  _'No, no, no! We've only just met! Don't leave now!'_  In a ditch effort to sway your decision, he pipes up. “It's dangerous in there!” Inquisitively, you swivel your head around towards him as he stammers, “S'pecially for a little feller like you. You thought that last fight was bad? It – It'll be  _ten_  times worse inside!”

“I know, but I said I'd help Death.”

The horseman snorts. “It's far more likely you'll be a hinderance.  _Particularly_ ,” he emphasizes, raising his voice, “if you go haring off on your own to tackle something that's almost triple your size.”

Wringing your hands, you swallow down on your fear, insisting, “I'm sorry. It won't happen again.”

Skeptical, he quirks a brow and peers down at you. “So, you'll stay close?”

“Yes Death.”

“But not  _so_  close that you'll get in the way?”

“No Death.”

“And you'll do  _precisely_  what I say, when I say it?”

Squashing down the urge to groan and roll your eyes, you mumble, “Within reason.”

One of the horseman's eyelids gives a volatile twitch.

“I mean,  _yes_  Death.”

The stern Nephilim scrutinises you for another long moment. Finally, he uncrosses his arms and nods slowly, the hard edge vanishing from his tone. “Alright then.. Good.” Jerking his head for you to follow, he spins on a heel and marches for the square, stone doors set into the mountain, calling, “Because I do not want to have  _that_  conversation with the Old ones if I return to Tri Stone without you.”

A little taken aback that he’d conceded, you stare after him dumbly.

“You've  _already_  failed the first step!”

You jump, shaking yourself and hurrying to catch up whilst throwing Karn a tentative wave over your shoulder. “It was nice to meet you by the way! See you around?”

Karn, for his part, wants to scream.

Instead, he can only seem to stare helplessly at you as you jog further and further away from him. His hand raises of its own accord to reach out while his heart, mind and soul shriek at him to just snatch you from the horseman and retreat back to the safety of Tri Stone.

But he doesn't.

Because he's a fraud, too ashamed for wanting to remain outside where it's safer while you – a human –  willingly head inside, armed with nothing but the shoddy sword he crafted almost five hundred years ago.

Once you've crossed the long portcullis and made it to the entrance, Death throws the door open and ushers you through.

Quite abruptly, Karn's feet come unfastened from the ground and he finds himself stumbling several, heavy steps after you, thoughts of just going with you leaping to the forefront of reason. If  _you_  can go and try to help, then why can't  _he_?

As he reaches the foot of the bridge however, the young maker suddenly lurches to a stop, another, unwelcome thought springing up and cutting through the rest.

He already  _has_  tried.

It's how he knows the Cauldron is a death trap - why he's so wary of going inside again.

He'd gone in with someone before; Alya and her brother.

And in trying to 'help,' Karn had almost cost the twins their lives.

His hand drops to hang limply at his side, mouth twisting into a dejected grimace as he watches the doors slide shut in Death's wake, sealing you inside and leaving him alone in the courtyard.

Perhaps...it would be safer for everyone if he  _did_  remain behind.....

As usual...

\----------------------------------------------

“That...is a big cork.”

“ _Very_  perceptive.”  

Standing in front of you, rising from the hard floor of the Cauldron like an oversized bath-plug, is the very obstacle that needs to be shifted if Death is to restore fire to the maker's forge. The 'cork,' as Karn had dubbed, is about the size of a small house, made entirely of thick, dark metal and shackled to the bale on top are the most impressive chains you've ever seen, bigger and wider than the ones that cargo ships drop to weigh anchor.

You gawk at a pair of immense weights hanging from the ceiling while Death scouts out the room, eyes landing on an unassuming door in the closest right hand corner.

”How're we ever gonna shift that?” you wonder aloud, “No  _way_  you're that strong.” Then, after you feel the horseman's terse stare hit the side of your head, you flatly point out, “Death, I refuse to believe you have the same upper body strength as a maker.”

Giving you his best 'offended' glower, he scoffs and shakes his head, starting for the door. “Be that as it may, I doubt the ancients intended for this ‘cork’ to be removed....manually..”

“What're you saying, there's a button somewhere that can do it for us?” you ask, hopeful.

“Perhaps. We just have to  _find_  it first..”

“The solution's  _never_  in the first room, is it?” Blowing out a sigh, you trail behind him through to the next room, sweat already beginning to pour down your forehead. “Whoo boy! It is  _hot_!”

“Is it? And here I thought we'd found ourselves back in the Crowfather's realm..”

Suddenly, Death tenses at the feeling of your fingers brushing against his tricep, a soft gasp pushing your lips apart. “You might as  _well_  be, how're you still so cold!?”

Groaning, the horseman thinks back on the days where he could travel in and out of dungeons like this one  _without_  the sound of inane chatter filling the silence. Conversation and Death have never gone hand in hand, a fact you seem to be blatantly unaware of. As you remark upon how lucky he is not to be suffering in this stifling heat, he sighs, shoulders slumping. “This will take some getting used to...”

\---------------------------------------------

For the better part of the next, Earth hour, you and the horseman traipse, traverse and fight through the Cauldron's depths. Well, Death does all of the fighting and most of the traversing whereas  _you_  handle the traipsing.

Vast, twisting corridors stretch from chamber to chamber, their ceilings caved in or crumbling to reveal the blue sky above, rays of sunlight falling in through the gaps. Tiny specks of volcanic ash flit around in the air, perpetually lifted by the warmth underfoot. Every now and again, in the more cavernous, lava-choked rooms, you hear the call of strange birds echo from the leafy foliage and vines growing in and along the roof. Sometimes, Dust even issues an answering caw from his various perches. Once or twice, he's hopped from Death's shoulder to yours, then from you to the head of a statue resembling a strangely familiar maker.

Thirst tickles at the back of your scratchy throat every time you swallow, though you push through it, knowing that while Death may be a perfectly  _adequate_  line of defence against the beasts of this dungeon, you can't afford to lose focus for a second. Not in here.

The air is thick with heat and it had taken nearly ten whole seconds for you to peel off your thick jumper and tie it around your waist. Clad in a skirt, black tank top and the boots Valus made, you pad after Death beneath a stone archway into a rectangular room that falls away on one side into a deep pit filled with broiling lava. Your path continues on the other side but so far as you can tell, there isn't a way across, unless you fancy trying to jump and grab one of the thick, rusted chains that hang from the ceiling high overhead and extend down, disappearing into the lava.

To the left, a strange type of what you  _assume_  is the local flora grows on the wall, bursting out of the stone work and your eye is caught by a spiked, black ball with sickly-green light pulsating from several, deep cracks running along its surface. “Hey, what's this?”

Death turns from where he'd leant over the side to peer into the river of lava and starts to ask what you're talking about when his body suddenly freezes. 

“Y/n!” he snaps, “ _Don't_!-”

But it's too late. You've already pulled the otherworldly football from its nest of sticky webbing and glanced over at him. “Don't what?”

If he had any time to spare, Death would have smacked a hand over his mask.

In three seconds flat, he marches over, snatches the growth out of your hands, spins on his heel and pitches it across the gap, not a moment too soon. It soars in a graceful arc before sticking to a long, metal bar set against a round platform unindented from the newel post at the bottom of a stone staircase.

A beat passes in which you open your mouth to protest. Then -

' **BOOM**!'

The spiked ball hisses once before exploding in a flash of blinding light.

Death pivots his head around stiffly to glare at you and he raises his forefinger, pointing it warningly at your stunned expression. At that moment, a grinding sound echoes throughout the chamber and you both look across the gap to see that the metal bar that had suffered the brunt of the explosion is slowly sliding into the newel, shrieking in protest against the tight confines of the stone notch. It slots into place with an audible click, and seconds later, a steady rumble jerks you on your feet as the heavy chains begin to clank and creak, raising up out of the lava and pulling something heavy up with them. In no time, a long, blackened metal bridge lifts into view, fitting perfectly across the wide gap and screeching to to a noisy stop.

You glance over at Death, just in time to see his scowl darken. For a moment, thick, impenetrable silence hangs over the hallway, until a grin brightens your features. “Ha, ha! You can't be mad at me. **I**  solved a puzzle!”

He grumbles something under his breath and stalks across the new bridge. “It wouldn't have been difficult to figure out. Your  _idiocy_  just beat me to it.”

Put out by the harsh term, your smile fades and you kick at a loose stone, sending it tumbling off the bridge into the lava below. Death gives you a sideways glance and heaves an exasperated sigh. “Just...don't go grabbing any more shadow  _bombs._  Emphasis on the ' _bomb_ ' part.”

Nodding sheepishly, you reach the other side and find your attention immediately snatched by something else.

“What about  _that_? Can I grab that?”

He follows your line of sight to a small table, tucked away in a dark corner behind the staircase, illuminated by a lonely wall-sconce. Resting on the slab of wood is a round object about the size of a bicycle wheel. It glitters prettily in the fire's glow and casts tiny freckles of light all along the wall. Before he can tell you to leave the mystery object, you've veered off towards it.

“Y/n,  _no_. We  _cannot_  afford to keep stopping to investigate every piece of rubbish you find,” he gripes, huffing as he's promptly ignored.“Honestly, you're worse than Dust.”

He receives an objectionable hiss from the crow perched on a finial by the steps.

“What  _is_  this thing?” you murmur, grabbing a pair of handles sticking out on either side and heaving it into your arms. Though made entirely of a green metal, inlaid with a coppery trim, it's surprisingly light. “It...It's a platter!” you exclaim to a thoroughly uninterested horseman.

“ _Mar_ vellous.”

“It is!” you insist, running a hand over the inside of the bowl, your warped reflection gazing back at you from a solid silver interior. Curious, you flip it over to look at the back as well. Intricate, golden patterns circle the outer rim and scribed in the centre is a pair of hammers, one crossed over the other.

“I..I think this might be  _Karn's_.”

Pausing midway up a step, Death's face twists behind his mask. “How in the world did you come to  _that_  conclusion?”

“S'got hammers on it.” Keeping a tight grip on the golden handles, you trot up the stairs after him. 

Scoffing, the horseman continues the ascent. “ _Most_  makers have used a hammer at one point or another. It's crafter is probably  _long_  gone by now. Leave it.”

Instead, you hug it tighter to your chest. “I will  _not._ What if it  _is_  Karn's?”

“So what if it  _is_?”

“Well, he'd probably want it back! I know  _I_  would.”

Death's face refuses to drop its incredulous expression. He shakes his head and strolls off the top step into a huge, empty room. “You don't owe him anything.”  

“He saved me from that construct,” you point out.

“And then you saved  _him_. So, you're even.”

“You ever think about doing nice things for people  _without_  expecting something in return?

“....Quiet.”

“I'm just saying -  _Mmph_!”

Without warning, Death has spun around and pressed a gentle finger to your lips, eyes narrowed in concentration and head cocked, listening. Pulling a face at the proximity of his grimy wrist wrappings to your taste buds, you pull away and throw him a questioning glance. In a flash, his hand moves from your mouth to his scythes, drawing them and spinning around in a slow circle, head darting in every direction, searching for an unseen threat.

Unseen, but  _not_  unheard.

You can hear it now, a low, steady hum, growing louder and louder until the tiny pebbles at your feet begin to dance and jump, skittering across the ground. Heart in your throat, you stare at them, whimpering quietly, “ _Something's coming_!”

He growls, hackles raised. “Something's already here.”

But  _where_? The acoustics in the room throw any sound around sporadically, rendering it nearly impossible to pinpoint the exact origin of the odd humming. Keeping his back to you, the horseman strains his sensitive ears and grits his teeth.“We need to move towards the middle of the room. We're too close to the w-”

Without warning, an explosion of dust and stone detonates just metres away and you're thrown forwards, letting go of the platter and landing in a heap on your stomach, cracking your jaw painfully on the hard stone.

Over the ringing in your ears, from somewhere nearby yet strangely far away, you become aware of Death's gravelly voice repeating, “ _Dammit, dammit,_ _ **dammit**_ _!_ ”

Coughing up a mouthful of dust and grit, you push yourself onto shaking elbows, rolling over with a strained grunt and blearily squinting up at the out-of-focus shadow towering over you. Another slow blink or two and your vision clears, revealing the source of the explosion.

What little moisture is left on your tongue instantly evaporates at the gruesome sight.

A colossal construct has burst out of the wall behind you. This one...this one is bigger _, much_  bigger that the rest you've encountered so far. It's covered from the dark barbute helm on its bulky head to stumpy feet in jet black corruption which rises in thick, wobbling globules from its back, breaking off when the strands are pulled too thin and sinking again like the world's most sinister lava lamp.

Patches of moss grow all over it's body, between the cracks in the stone and the massive spikes jutting out from the shoulder pauldron, blunt and weathered from age. It has an arm held aloft threateningly, the entire forearm made up of a rigid sphere of solid rock where a hand should be. Thick prongs of corruption stick up all over the rough surface, reminding you of the medieval maces they keep in museums.  

The giant construct rumbles low and menacing before it rocks back on its heels, spreads its arms wide and bellows out a sound that could be a name if it weren't so warped and garbled. “ _ **GHARN**_!”  
Several corrupted tendrils roiling between 'Gharn's' joints peel away from the stone flesh and begin extending down towards you.

All of a sudden, a flash of grey and brown obscures the golem from view.

“D-Death!?”

You stare up at the horseman's sinewy back, pale skin stretched so taut over his vertebrae, you're surprised it hasn't split around the bone. He's dropped into a low crouch above you, one boot braced on either side of your knees and a scythe poised behind his back, ready and waiting to be brought forwards at a moment's notice. The construct groans, confused for a second as its dull intellect races to register the new opponent.

Slowly, Death stalks forward and circles around it, making sure the huge brute swings around as well, keeping it's 'gaze' fixed on  _him_  instead of you.

The tension is so tightly drawn, you could pluck a finger in mid air and hear a chord play. Then, just when it reaches snapping point, Death lunges.

Gharn falters at his unexpected burst of speed but recovers almost immediately, throwing its mace-fist down into the space he'd occupied just milliseconds before and letting it spin like a buzz saw, grinding the floor up into rubble.

Death ducks beneath its arm and strafes behind the immense construct, forcing it to yank it's still spinning hand from the ground and make a tight turn, teetering on its struts. From behind, Death slashes at it, pulling an enraged bellow from the depths of its body and as it tries to land another devastating blow, he leaps right for it and slides between its legs, righting himself on the other side and carving his scythes across the width of its back again.

Belting out another infuriated roar, the golem heaves its bulk around. With impossible grace, Death jumps straight up into the air and gives its head a few, sharp strikes with his blades. To defend itself, it brings its arms up to cover its head, the corrupted tentacles on its shoulders screeching raggedly.

Dropping to the ground, Death spares a few, fatal seconds to turn to you, pointing towards a door at the far end of the room. “Go!” he orders, “Don't just stand there! Mo-”

He hadn't expected the golem to move so fast. Neither had you, to be honest, and  _you'd_  been looking right at it, saw it pull back one arm and thrust it at a startling velocity, connecting with the horseman's ribs and knocking him into the wall on the far side with a resounding ' _smack_!'

“ _DEATH_!” you screech, a swell of terror pinching your voice while ‘Gharn’ marches after him.  

From across the room, Death's eyes flutter open and closed and he groans, glancing up a mere fraction too late.

The construct's fingers close around his skull, enveloping his entire head in its stone fist and lifting him up off his feet before it slams him into the wall again and again, even as his hands come up to scrabble at the immovable arm.

“Put him  _down_!”

Either it doesn't hear your frantic shriek, or it simply doesn't care.

Sweaty, trembling fingers take hold of your sword but you pause. Against a monster that size, what good will a blade do? What about your gun?....No, even more ineffective...

Looking wildly around the room for something,  _anything_  else that could help, your eyes eventually settle on the discarded dish resting several metres to your right. Jaw set, you scramble over to it and snag one of the handles, lifting it into the air and grabbing a loose chunk of brick that had once been part of the wall in your other hand. Holding both in the air in in front of you, you will your legs to stop quivering, face contorted in abject fear. “I said, LEAVE HIM  **ALONE**!”

Fuelled by panic, you swing the rock and platter together with all your might. The resonant clang produced by stone on metal rents the air asunder, loud as a gong, shrill as an alarm. It sets the teeth in your skull rattling and finally, finally draws the construct's attention away from Death. Sluggishly, almost leisurely, its head slowly swivels around to find you.

Corruption senses life, not from the body dangling from its fingers, but from the audacious little creature challenging it from the other side of the room.

Parasitic, discontented with its body of heavy boulders, it puppeteers the construct, dropping Death in an undignified heap on the ground and trundling in your direction.

You watch it come, blood roaring in your ears as tendrils of dark ooze stretch from its body, swaying hypnotically before they cluster together into one, thick tentacle.

The gentle sigh that slips out between your lips is resigned and quiet, worlds away from the shout that had preceded it.

The stone giant trudges to a lazy stop several feet from you, its head angled down, corruption sliding an little rivers along its bulky arms before lifting from the cold rock and stretching, reaching out towards you.

Holding the silver platter close to your chest, you gulp and take a single, stiff step back. On shaking limbs, you fight to remain as upright as possible, grinding out through clamped teeth, “I'm not afraid of you...”

A blatant lie. Not even a very good one.

The hatred pouring out of the putrid substance is as tangible as the stone it clings to. You can feel it. A thicker, wetter heat than the Cauldron's atmosphere. From this proximity, it sticks to your skin like a feverish sheen and invades your throat and nostrils with its stench of rotten meat.

And then....the fear, the ubiquitous dread....vanishes, like it had never been there at all.

A heavy weight droops over your mind and lays there, lazily swelling and bulging outward to push everything else aside. All that exists in these few moments is you and the Corruption.

Dimly, you have to wonder if you'll even be aware, if it'll hurt, if  _you'll_  hurt anyone else...

...If it would be  _better_  this way...

You don't even notice that your legs have stopped quaking, nor that you've lowered the metal dish, exposing your shivering heart. You  _are_  very tired. What if you just.... _ **L̴et it ͢h͢a̡p͝p̵e͝n̶**_?

You could just..... _ **L̶et͡ me in**_

Yeah.

 _Yeah_ , why not?

Aren't  _ **yo̡u t͟ir͟ed**_ of _ **f̵̶͡ig̢̛͏ht҉i͝n͏g͞?**_

The fog grows denser. Even the voice in your head sounds strange, as if it isn't your own anymore.

Out of nowhere, your brain explodes when a howl – deep and powerful – rips right through it, forcing you to drop the platter and clutch frantically at your ears, watching through squinted eyes as the Corruption recoils, flaring up above you and thrashing wildly through the air. With a pop, your mind abruptly clears and you let out a scream of your own, an influx of terror flooding back into your body. ' _Where the Hell had **that**  gone_?'

Prying the hands out of your hair, you crane your neck back to look up at the construct and gasp.

Death has leapt up onto its back and in one, swift motion, he's hooked his scythes beneath its chin, braced his legs against the solid trapezius and  _pulled_.

A sickening squelch curls your stomach when he wrenches the head clean off its neck and severs the corruption's connection along with it. The Construct begins to teeter backwards on its struts, so Death kicks off its back, somersaulting forwards to land expertly in front of you. He merely regards you, still as a statue whilst the rest of the giant golem collapses to the ground, its body crumbling now that corruption no longer holds its pieces together.

Only when the room settles, when the walls have stopped shaking and the booming vibrations have dissipated into the regular murmur of the volcano, do you dare risk meeting Death's irascible eyes.

He's angry, that much is obvious. But it's different from the anger he'd expressed outside with Karn. This anger is cold and dangerous, a jagged edged sword that he holds - not pointed  _out -_ but  _in_.  

The horseman's chest doesn't move around rigid breaths like yours does, he doesn't blink or shudder from adrenaline. All he does is look at you and ponder. Oh, he's enraged, of course. He's livid at you for intervening....Yet there's something else mingled into the mix, something that reins in his temper and curbs it in another direction.

 _He_  hadn't expected the blasted construct to move so fast.  _He_  had gotten complacent, and it almost cost him dearly.

It's the same sensation he gets when he considers his little brother's predicament, of laying chained before the Charred Council and subjected to all manner of cruel punishments.

War can endure, he's tougher than the rest of them, but that doesn't stop Death from doing as older brothers often do. Not even the Reaper is an exception to that universal rule.

He worries –  _is_  worried - about a  _human_.

The moment he places the familiar, uncomfortable prod at his gut, he squashes it down, letting his eyes slide shut at last. ' _Three times,_ ' he growls internally, ' _Three times she's done that. Three times she's rushed to the defence of someone else, but failed to defend herself._ '

Troubled, Death's eyebrows furrow even further, casting dark shadows over his luminous eyes. The first time had been on Earth, where she'd bolted into a horde of demons to help  _him_  – a stranger. However, when those same demons turned their attention to her, she froze.

Again, outside the Cauldron, a construct had been mere inches away from pulverising the jittery human, yet her feet remained stuck fast to the ground until that maker, Karn, saved her life. Then, as soon as she realised  _he_  was in trouble, she didn't hesitate to intercept his attacker.  

And here, moments ago, she drew Gharn away from him, even though it meant risking her life, a life that she then seemed ready to cast aside all too easily.

It's a pattern he recognises all too well, having walked a similar path himself. The path to self destruction.

' _Survivor's guilt_ ,' the Keeper of Oblivion had said to him once eons ago, mere months after he and his siblings had purged the Nephilim from existence once and for all. The wizened old maker had received a cutting retort for his observation, and a new, unsightly hole in his front door.

It took a full century before the horseman was ready to admit that the Keeper had been spot on.

Death has never once regretted what he did to the Nephilim. What happened was necessary. Necessity however, did not grant him immunity from guilt. And guilt is as far from regret as angels are from demons.

This mindset would need to be nipped in the bud if you're to stop almost getting yourself killed every five minutes. ' _But how_?' Challenging you about your behaviour now would only prove counterproductive. The Cauldron is neither the time, nor the place. And  _he_  is probably not the most qualified person to be confronting you to begin with. No, deft though he may be, you're in a frame of mind that even  _he's_  too heavy-handed to fix. As much as the proud horseman is loathe to admit it – he may have to consult with  _Eideard_  about this. Death barely suppresses a groan as he resigns himself to the long, uncomfortable conversation he'll be sure to have upon the return to Tri Stone.

Peeling his eyes open again, he catches your grimace, and frowns.

You're cowering - down and back - submissive, as though you're expecting him to lash out.

He supposes that's fair, given his initial reaction when you were attacked outside. He might have to blame  _that_  one on an eternity of being the eldest brother of four.

Willing his hackles back down to their rightful places on either side of his spine, Death expels a steadying breath and lowers himself onto one knee in front of you. Even at half his height, you barely stand a few inches taller than him.

Gradually, your grimace falls at the un-horseman-like motion, replaced by cautious curiosity that escalates after he murmurs, “Are you alright?”.

Uncertainty plaguing your expression, your eyes dart left and right before finding his again. “Y-yeah. It...it didn't touch me,” you utter, hugging your sides, “You're not angry?”

The skin under his eye sockets crinkles, moved by a hidden smirk. “Why would I be angry?”

“Beeecause you were  _before_?” you cautiously point out.

Death blinks. Then, quite suddenly, he ducks his head low, shoulders quaking behind silent laughter.

A little affronted, your face twists into a frown. “What? What's so funny?”

“Ah, forgive me,” he chuckles, waving a pacifying hand through the air, “I just -  _ahem -_ That was quite endearing, you assumed I was angry? Because I raised my voice at you outside?”

“Isn't that what angry people do?”

“That  _wasn't_  anger, that was-” Death falters, jaw clacking shut around the word that  _almost_  escaped him. Clearing his throat, he instead veers the conversation in another direction. “You haven't  _seen_  me angry, girl. Not yet, at least.”

“Oh...” You bite your lip, focused on the ground. After another second, you raise your head again, some of the tension gone from your shoulders and tone. “Well...You let me know if that ever happens, okay? I want a good head start.”

Telltale smirk creeping back into place, the horseman nods,“I'll do that.”

Glancing back at Gharn, he gently adds, “By the way, good thinking with the dish. It was starting to get claustrophobic in there. That was rather brave, on your part.”

At his words, you perk up. “It...It was?”

Hands twitching sporadically, Death begins to reach out for your arm only to hesitate halfway there. Then, clearing his throat, he draws it back, fingers curling in on themselves as he drops them across his bent knee instead. Whatever tenderness had been present in his tone is promptly flushed by a gruff cough as he pushes himself back onto his feet. “Yes. Brave - but it was also  _foolish_. You're only lucky that my recovery time is so impeccable.”

“Yeah,” you hastily agree, “Yeah, I guess I am...Thanks, Death.”

Humphing, he spins about face and makes for the door, though not without gently murmuring over his shoulder, “Thank  _you_ , Y/n.” Just like that, his regular tone returns, gruff and business as usual. “Now come. We should move on before any other surprises decide to burst through the wall.”

In higher spirits, you pat straighten up, pat down your skirt and jog after him. “Right, good pla- Oh! Hold on a sec!”

Death throws a cursory glance around and finds you back-peddle a ways, bend down to pick up the discarded platter and brush it free of stone chips. “Okay, got it!” you chirp and scamper back towards him, prize in hand.

“Still keeping that thing are you?” he remarks as you fall into step on his left.

“Yep. If it weren't for this thing doubling as an excellent gong, that construct would never have let you go.”

You pass underneath the low, door frame into a grand, ruinous hallway. Urns, pots and ceramic vases lay scattered all along the sides. Death places a hand on his chest and splays his fingers wide in mock surprise. “The  **dish**  made that sound!? I thought that jarring noise came out of  _your_   _mouth_!”

\-------------------------

The two of you continue walking down the corridor in companionable silence for a while.

Something appears to have shifted out from between the two of you. Just a small thing, a sort of wall that had been thrown up haphazardly upon meeting each other. Oddly enough, you don't feel quite so alone walking next to the Grim Reaper anymore.

Unbeknownst to you, his piercing gaze has turned subtly to one side, roving up and down your figure before it flicks forwards again.

Perhaps it was just Death's imagination, but in that rapid glance, he would swear he noticed you walking a little straighter, steps a little longer and surer, and beneath his bone mask, the horseman's lips stretch a little wider.

After a few more minutes, you step through another doorway and emerge out into another high-walled chamber, finding yourselves standing on an overlook, affording you an impressive view of the floor below. Meanwhile, sitting in the middle of the overlook, on a raised dais surrounded by circular, crumbling steps, is a sturdy capstan winch, set upright into the stone.

“Hey!” you suddenly pipe up, springing over to the dais and round the small staircase, skidding to a halt before the drop off. Leaning over and blowing out a shrill whistle, you swipe a hand through the sweat gathered on your head. “There's the cork!” Indeed, stretched out before you is the entrance to the Cauldron,  _and_  the colossal plug keeping the Fire of the Mountain under a tight lid. From up here, you can see steam built up under pressure escaping through the tiniest gaps in the metalwork. “All that work and we end up back to square one?  _Boo_.”

On the other hand, Death is busy casting his eyes over the dais and humming thoughtfully. “Perhaps not. Look there.” He rubs at his mask's chin. “I think this might be the solution to our problem.”

Spinning about, you follow his line of sight and smirk. “Famous last words,” you pant, stretching out your back and wincing at a series of loud pops and cracks following the motion. “You said that about the last lever.”

Turning his mask to give you an uppity glance, he promptly scoffs, “Yes, well when I'm wrong, it's never twice in the same day.”

The sound of your stifled snort reaches his ears, no matter how quickly and firmly you slap a hand over your mouth to disguise it.

Grumbling halfheartedly under his breath, he stalks up the stairs and stops to stroke a palm over the winch's handle. “Perhaps I should let you do the honours?”

“I mean....I'll try if you want me to. Wouldn't want to steal your thunder though.”  

“Of course not,” he rumbles, getting into position.

Bracing his hands on the horizontal lever, he gives it a shove to get it moving. At first, the metal cog wheels screech objectionably, fused to each other under years of rust but with another, firm push, they bow under the horseman's might and finally begin to turn. You watch, spellbound as he throws his whole body into turning it, leant forwards, arms tense and steady on the bar, he digs his toes into the ground with every step, forcing the winch to turn in a tight, concise circle around its pivot.

There's a loud clang behind you, and upon whirling about, you realise that the two monumental weights that dangle from the ceiling above have begun to gradually lower as the chains connected to the plug raise higher, pulled taut by their burden.  

Death's movements come to a jarring halt once the weights hit the ground and shoot resonant tremors throughout the whole chamber. He stands, swiping his bandaged hands together and makes his way down the steps to watch next to you as the 'cork' gives an almighty groan, and then, it shifts, twisting a foot or so to the right before sluggishly lifting up and out of the hole it had been slotted into, tugged free by the gargantuan chains.

“You did it!” Bouncing on your toes, you point excitedly down into the pit that slowly fills with molten lava and pours down a carved, stone trench, disappearing underneath the Cauldron's front entrance and no doubt flowing its way through a subterranean tunnel into town.

Your shoulder is unexpectedly bumped by the horseman's elbow. “I think you participated  _just_  enough to consolidate this a 'we' situation.”  

“Seriously?” you ask, turning an owlish stare to his mask, “I helped?”

Cocking his head, Death makes a big show of considering his answer while you watch, that dull glimmer of hope refusing to die out. Eventually, he looks at you again, holds up a hand and curls his thumb and forefinger together until the pads are almost touching. “Just barely.”

The grin that breaks like sunshine across your face is so immeasurably wide, he nearly tells you to stop it, lest you hurt yourself.

Instead, he rolls his eyes and places his knuckles on the base of your spine, giving you another nudge towards a door on the far side of the overlook. “Now don't go getting too cocksure. You're still as breakable as a porcelain doll.”

Even his dig at your fragility can't quite extinguish the tiny flutter of elation in your stomach. It won't last, of course. You're sadly aware of that. So you plan on riding the precious feeling for as long as you possibly can.

With your hands still clasped safely around the silver and gold platter's handles, you mosey alongside the horseman, glad to finally be leaving the oppressive heat.


	8. Eventide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the Fire of the Mountain restored, you, Death and your new friend, Karn, make your way back to Tri Stone. Whilst Eideard and the horseman discuss something in private, you find yourself passing a few, peaceful moments with the village’s shaman before, inevitably, you have to rest.
> 
> Warnings: Mentions of suicidal tendencies and self destructive behaviour. The slowest burn to ever burn.

If Karn continued pacing the courtyard for much longer, he’d eventually start to wear a path into the fractured stone.

Chewing relentlessly at his bottom lip, he pauses for the umpteenth time and turns around to face the Cauldron’s doors, his boyish heart giving a hopeful thud as he imagines that  _this_  time, they’ll surely swing open to reveal the horseman and his charge..

However, much to his chagrin, the entrance remains undisturbed, and Karn begrudgingly resumes his aimless trudging.

Already, the suns have begun to dip lower and lower on the horizon, scattering streaks of soft mauve, pinks and golds across the sky that bleed into a rich indigo far off to the East….   
And the horseman and his charge  _still_  have yet to reemerge from the Cauldron’s fiery depths. Anxiety has its grip on the young maker’s insides, kneading at them mercilessly with cold, pointed fingers whilst a thousand doubts plague his mind and whisper that he’s a coward for backing down, for letting them go in  _alone_.

The leather gloves creak noisily as he curls his hands into tight fists and with a frustrated snarl, he thunks them against the sides of his broad skull once, twice, and then unfolds his meaty fingers to wrap them around his ears, tugging down sharply. “Oooh, the other’s are gonna  _kill_  me,” he frets.

The Stonefather’s peak has just swallowed the second sun, hiding its warmth behind a cragged peak when there’s a resounding ’ _ **BOOM**_ ’ from beyond the front doors and a violent tremor suddenly shakes the ground underfoot.

Letting go of his ears, Karn almost trips over in an attempt to whirl about, heart leaping up into his throat as he yelps, “ _What_  the-!” A split second later however, and he cuts himself off, eyes slowly growing wide.

He can  _feel_  it - The low, tumultuous thrum, like the steady thump of an almighty heart beating way down deep in the earth that hasn’t been felt since Corruption rolled through the land. It’s as familiar to him – to  _all_  the makers - as the voice of an old friend.

Laughing breathlessly, Karn beams up at the Cauldron’s high, crumbling walls, painted blood red in the glow of the lava. “Ha ha! They  _did_  it!” he cheers to nobody, punching a fist into the air and training an expectant grin at the entrance.

After an agonisingly long minute of stillness, the heavy doors suddenly screech open and out of the shadows steps Death himself.

He meets the maker’s anxious gaze across the bridge and hesitates, apparently taken aback that he’d remained in the same place for the last several hours.

When the human doesn’t immediately emerge alongside the horseman, a wave of despair crashes down over Karn and threatens to bring him to his knees.

Moments later, and the feeling is replaced with utter relief as your familiar face pops out from behind your stoic companion, something round and shiny clutched to your chest, although Karn barely registers  _anything_  outside the numbing euphoria rocking him on his feet.

Death begins stalking across the bridge towards him and you trundle clumsily after, dragging your feet, a strange mix of fatigue and eagerness mingled into your movements.

Karn’s first instinct is to meet you halfway, sweep you up into his guarding arms and carry you far from this deadly place. But he holds himself back, remembering that to you, he’s almost a perfect stranger and you probably  _wouldn’t_  appreciate being swept off your feet on an impromptu whim by an overzealous maker.

Fingers twitching erratically, he manages to hold his ground. “I can’t believe it!” he settles for calling instead, throwing his arms out wide, “You’ve given the mountain back her voice!”

“Hey Karn,” you sigh around a tired smile, coming to a stop in his shadow, “Long time, no see.”

“Aye. Bit  _too_  long, f'you ask me.”

You don’t miss the way he gives you a cursory up and down glance before clearing his throat and blurting, “So! I see you’re no worse for wear.”

“To be honest, Death’s the one who got a little more banged up in there….Oh!-” All of a sudden, you snap your fingers together. “That reminds me actually. Can you settle a bet for us?”

Behind you, Death clicks his tongue. “There was no  _bet_. I simply expressed my doubts that it was his.”

You ignore the horseman in favour of  eagerly thrusting the platter up towards Karn’s face, peeping around the side of it to ask, “This look familiar to you, big guy?”

Several, rapid blinks convey his surprise and then, to your immense satisfaction, the maker’s jaw promptly drops and his eyes bulge open wide. “My journeyman piece!” he exclaims, reaching down to lift it gingerly out of your hands while you shoot a smug grin at the horseman, who merely rolls his eyes with an indignant huff.

In the meantime, Karn inspects his platter hungrily. It’s a little dusty, and there’s a shallow dent just above the point where the two crossed hammers meet, but otherwise it looks the same as it had when he first forged it. “Where in the name o’ the  _Stonefather_  did you find  _this_?” he babbles, “I must’ve lost it  _ages_  ago!”

“Yes, I’ve noticed you seem to have a knack for losing things,” Death offers, absently picking out some soot that has gathered beneath his fingernails, “A sword…This  _dish_ …You’re lucky Y/n here has an eye for all things  _shiny_.”

Bashfully, you offer the maker a shrug and glance towards your feet. “It was just stuck up a corner somewhere. I saw the hammers on the back and thought…I thought it might belong to  _you_.”

Daring another peek up, you find him staring at you with a grin plastered across his face and those pale, grey eyes sparkling nearly gold in the dying sunlight.

His expression – amazed elation – is contagious and you soon find yourself squeezing out a shy smile in return.

“Cheers for this.” The maker swings the ruck sack off his shoulders, plopping it onto the ground beside you and flipping the top open. Slightly unsettled that even his  _pack_  stands taller than you, you watch as he reaches in to shuffle some things around inside. Then, almost lovingly, he takes great care sliding his silver platter in alongside whatever other knickknacks he has stored away in there before fastening the lid back up again and tugging on each thick, leather strap until they’re taut.

“Right. We’d best be off then,” he announces, shouldering his pack once more, “You should tell Alya the good news right quick.”

With that, he tilts his head in the direction of the Charred Pass and beckons for you to walk beside him.

Sucking down a breath that’s blessedly cooler than it had been inside the Cauldron, you trot away from Death and fall into step with the maker.

Admittedly somewhat taken aback, the horseman watches you go, eyes hardening into a glare which he aims at the back of Karn’s head. “Oh, you’re coming along too, are you?” he calls, making his own way off the courtyard and onto the blackened soil.

The maker snorts, sharing an amused look with you. “Aye? In’t much point in me hangin’ about here, now you’ve restored the fire.”

“No,” Death grumbles, sending a mental command to Despair, “I suppose there’s not.”

All of a sudden, both you and the maker are brought to a stop as the spectral horse bursts out of the ground just feet ahead, rearing back on his hind legs before thudding down to the dirt and blowing a rough snort over your face.

One of Karn’s hands thwacks against his chest.“ _Buggery_ , that made me jump.”

“Oh, hi Despair.” Reaching up, you scratch at his chin, beaming when he clacks his teeth and stretches his neck forwards, tail bone whipping about in contentment.

Death brushes past you to stand at the saddle, winding his hands around the reins. “Would it  _kill_  you to show a little self respect?” he hisses, although aside from flicking one, bony ear, Despair gives no indication that he’s heard, or bothered to even  _listen_  to his master’s scathing remark. Aware that his words have fallen on deaf ears, the horseman aims a calculating glance at you instead. “Do you plan on walking, like your new friend here-” He indicates Karn, who looks a little  _too_  pleased at his promotion from ‘acquaintance.’ “- Or would you prefer a lift?” Briefly, he wonders if you’d be offended if he said you look like you could use one, although judging by the relieved sigh gushing past your lips, you’re probably more likely to agree with him.

Just as you smile and open your mouth to accept, you suddenly find your legs swept out from under you and with a startled yelp, you topple backwards into a soft, leather glove.

“She’s already got a lift,” the maker declares proudly, raising you up to his gigantic shoulder and depositing you over it on your stomach like the world’s most compliant sack of potatoes.

It takes a few moments for your stomach to settle after being lifted so suddenly. Swallowing down a nervous laugh, you flip yourself over and hurriedly grab a fistful of his scarf for stability. “Well, I – um… _thank_  you, Karn! But maybe next time, I could get a little heads up?”

The body beneath you stiffens, and upon glancing across to see why, you notice that Karn’s expression has fallen drastically and he’s stuffed a sharp canine into his bottom lip, the very picture of ashamed. “Heh, sorry,” he gulps, “Better keep that in mind for next time, eh?”

“Hey, it’s okay,” you reassure him, glad that your words seem to put the grin back on his face as if it had never left, “It’s just that most humans appreciate being warned before they’re tossed over someone’s shoulder. You are a lot bigger than me, after all.”

“Yes. And a lot  _sturdier_  too,” the horseman interjects brusquely.

Tossing a glance down at him, you flinch under the livid glare he’s sending your way. “Yikes, what’s that look for?”

“I think that’s just his face,” Karn murmurs from the corner of his mouth.

The horseman bristles for a few more seconds, scowling, first at you, then at the young maker until at last, he expels a hot sigh and hoists himself into Despair’s saddle. “If you insist on carrying her, at least be caref-….Just…don't  _drop_  her, Pup.”

Karn pouts, rolling his eyes with a huff. ’ _As if I ever would_.’

Taking one giant, unhurried step forwards, he goes rigid as tiny fingers shoot out and brace themselves on his neck, just below his ear and he has to fight the urge to lean into your soft touch.

Wheeling about, Despair breaks into an unhurried trot, moving ahead of the maker, who keeps up easily thanks to his enormous strides. “So,” he pipes up, brushing off a spell of giddiness at your proximity, “What brings a human out here to the Forge Lands?”

“You…you mean you don’t know?”

He twists his head to regard you curiously. “Know what?”

“…What happened to Earth.”

Karn’s ears tip down at your sudden, glum expression and he cautiously mutters, “No?”

Hesitant, you bite down hard on your tongue to stave off the telltale ache lurking just behind your eyelids. The maker’s small, grey eyes are still peering at you sideways expectantly though, and Death – just as curious – has his head cocked ever so slightly, but still noticeably enough for you to realise that he’s listening in. With a heavy sigh and a heavier heart, you concentrate on the steady thumping of Karn’s steps as he treads sure-footedly over the charred ground. “Where do I begin…”

—

Reliving the events of your last day on Earth was….jarring, to say the least.

You tried your best to reconstruct what Death had told you, about the apocalypse, how it wasn’t meant to happen so soon, of his brother’s false imprisonment…

But it soon became clear that once he’d learned the gist of what had happened to your world, Karn’s focus switched to something a little closer to hand. He was insatiably curious about  _you_ , specifically. He had a myriad of queries that he would hurl out rapid fire, and no sooner had you answered  _one_  question than he was armed with another, hands gesticulating in animated intrigue. For some reason, the maker winces after he asks you anything, his voice laced with an edge of trepidation, and he always manages to appear taken aback when you actually  _give_  him an answer, as though he’d been expecting you to tell him to shut up and stop being so nosy. However, most of his inquiries were asked with such enthusiasm and were so charmingly bizarre, that even if you had been annoyed, you wouldn’t have been able to find it in your heart to shut him down.

He wanted to know where you lived. Did you live in a house? Was it made out of stone?

Did you ever go exploring like him?

Is your sky the same shade of blue as his?

Does Earth have mountains? Lakes? What about trees?

Do humans use horses to get about, like Death?

…..What in maker’s blood is a ’ _car_?'  

By the time your mismatched trio reemerges into the Stonefather’s Vale, you’ve deduced that Karn must have been  _starving_  for someone to talk to for quite a while.

“Makes me wish I’d gotten to see it,” he laments softly, “Earth, I mean. ‘Fore it was…..er, well….You know… Destroyed.” He trails off and moves his gaze past you to the gargantuan, pustule-yellow eyeball, staring across the valley as the three of you make your way up the well trodden path through the feathery grass.

Unfortunately, his sobering reminder brings you crashing back to reality with a painful jolt. 

You’d been so busy yawping on about the state of Earth  _before_  the apocalypse, you’d plum forgotten that it’s no longer like that. What if you never get to see your  _own_  blue sky again? And when was the last time you ever stopped to admire something so commonplace as the sunset? Of course, it’s far too late to lament these things now, in hindsight. But that doesn’t stop you from giving yourself a mental kick in the pants….as if you could have  _known_  the end of the world was imminent. 

Nodding solemnly, you study a graze on the back of your hand. “Mmm…It sure was something…” Crestfallen, you hunch in on yourself, kneading a hand through the fabric of his scarf. 

Karn realises he’s said the wrong thing -  _again_  - and viciously curses himself, wracking his brains for something to wipe the anguish from your face. Just as he opens his mouth however, you promptly sniff and drag your head up to look at the valley stretched in front of you, wiping a finger discreetly underneath your weary eyes. “But - but  _your_  realm is beautiful too!”

Glad for the opportunity to salvage his blunder, Karn’s ears prick forward. “Oh sure,” he agrees, jabbing his thumb towards the tangled mass of corruption, “F'you ignore that  _eye_ sore over there.”

There’s a pregnant pause where you blink and turn to face him, an eyebrow sliding up your forehead as your lips give a little tremble. And then suddenly, like the sun breaking through a storm cloud, your whole face lights up and you let out a sharp bark of laughter, slapping a hand over your mouth a second too late to cover it.

The maker can’t quite describe the giddiness he feels at hearing you laugh properly for the first time.

“Oh my God! That was  _terrible_!” you giggle, whilst he - spurred on by your encouraging reaction - joins in, “I can’t believe  _puns_  are universal!”

The last of the suns finally sinks below the horizon line just as the three of you enter the tunnel that leads back into Tri Stone,  _two_  in particular with far higher spirits than before.

—————————–

“So that thing – Gharn? - It has Death’s head in hand, ready to crack his skull open like an egg!-”

Leading the way through the tunnel heading toward town, Death groans as he absently listens to the chatter behind him. Recently, the conversation had turned into a slapdash recounting of the journey you’d taken through the Cauldron together. 

'…. _Like an_ egg _.’ Really? Of all the similes she could have used.._.’

His internal griping is interrupted by Karn eagerly prompting you to go on. “So, what did you  _do_!?” he presses, eyes glued to your face, enraptured by the tale.

Though you’re far from being an expert story-teller, you can’t help but to find his enthusiasm contagious and with an air of dramatic intrigue added to your tone, you slyly drawl, “Well,  _that’s_  where your platter comes in.”  

“Eh? My platter?”

“Mhm,” you nod, kicking your keels rhythmically against the front of his shoulder, “I had to get Gharn’s attention, but I knew the sword wouldn’t do the trick. So, I grabbed your platter and banged it with a rock - Oh! Sorry, by the way.. It, uh…it  _may_  have a dent in it now.”

Giving a dismissive wave oh his leather glove, Karn chuckles lightly. “Ah, can’t have made it worse'n it already is. Never  _was_  much to look at.”

“There you go  _again_ ,” you frown, leaning over to rap your knuckles against his skull, “Karn, the stuff you make is beautiful! I’d  _never_  be able to make a sword this cool.” Fondly, you pat the scabbard on your hip whilst the young maker stares at you, his lips parted slightly around an awestruck smile.

 _That_  was new, someone telling him he’d done  _well_ , for a change.. His cheeks glow warmly under the praise, and he’s thankful to the darkness for hiding it. 

—-

Night has well and truly fallen by the time you make it to the village.

Stepping out of the tunnel, your eyes are immediately drawn up towards the sky, stretched out from horizon to endless horizon like a canvas of the deepest indigo blue, bestrewn with sparkling, white stars. “Oh  _wow_ ,” you breathe, leaning forwards on Karn’s shoulder.

He turns to say something but falters when he catches a glimpse of your face, so close that his breath disturbs the finer hairs decorating your forehead.

You’ve tilted you neck back, eyes blown wide open and in them, he sees the galaxy in a way he never has. Thousands of stars lay peacefully in the labyrinthian intricacies of your irises and render your pupils almost pristinely white under the multitude of tiny lights.

There’s a wanderlust there too, hidden well behind layers of timidity, anxiety and sorrow but it’s undeniably  _there_.

Karn’s heart does a vicious buck and he jumps, ripping his gaze off your face before you notice him staring.

“I’ve never seen the stars so bright,” you murmur softly.

“I see you were successful, horseman!”

Instinctively, Death takes a step around and in front of Karn and looks towards the rightmost staircase. It isn’t long before he catches sight of Eideard, tugging himself laboriously up the stone steps with one hand on the banister and the other still clasped securely around his staff.   
Reaching the top, he raises a closed fist to his mouth and coughs into it harshly, afterwards drawing in a rattling breath. Once he’s regained his composure, he ambles over towards your little gathered group, his wizened gaze sweeping back and forth along the ground, searching.

“And..I see you’ve met our young Karn,” he says distractedly, lifting his eyes up to the other maker where he at last finds you sitting precariously on the youngling’s shoulder. Eideard smiles, the grip on his staff loosening to a less crushing hold which allows a splash of colour to return to his pronounced knuckles.

“Ah. Making friends are you, boy?”

“Aye,” Karn nods vigorously, only to hesitate a moment later and cast a shy glance at you from the corner of his eye. “Least, I hope so..”

He offers a palm up to you, waiting until you’ve slid off your perch and hopped down into the centre of his leather glove before lowering you gently to the ground.

Giving the thumb beside you a reassuring pat, you crane your neck back to meet Eideard’s gaze. “I think I’d like to say we’re friends, yeah!”

You’re aware of Karn’s fingers giving an unintended twitch. But only the elder and Death notice the burst of sheer exhilaration that appears on the young maker’s face. Oblivious, you use his thumb as leverage and step clumsily out of his hand. “You know he  _saved_  me, back at the Cauldron.”

“Did he now?” the Old one hums, appraising him thoughtfully.

Of all his people, Karn is by far the most reckless, which can of course be accredited to his youth. But every now and again, he deviates from the path he’s set himself on, and that insatiable need to prove his worth is overridden by the occasional moment of nobility and sometimes even downright selflessness.

Perhaps….having someone with the closest equivalence to his age around would do a world of good for their youngest. Stonefather  _knows_  he’s been in dire need of a friend even  _before_  Corruption stole the other young members of his village.

Karn’s status as an outcast was never his fault though. He has a wandering soul, seldom content to remain in the same spot for too long, never long enough to put down roots. The rest of them have their feet planted firmly on the ground whilst Karn’s head seems to have made its home in the clouds.

“Yeah well…She saved me too.”

Eideard blinks, realising he’d been lost in thought. “Hmm?”

“I – I was just sayin’, she saved me after,” the young maker reiterates, gesturing towards you with the back of his hand, “From a corrupted construct.”

“ _Corrupted_?” In an instant, Eideard’s placidity vanishes. His eyebrows snap together and the fingers around his staff clamp down furiously on its metal shaft.

Startled by the unexpected change in the elder’s usually gentle demeanour, you shrink in on yourself as he leans forward and demands urgently, “Did it touch you? Did it break your skin?”

“N-no!” you squeak, hunching your shoulders, head ducking to peer up at him through your dainty lashes. In the darkness, looming overhead like this, he manages to look even bigger than he already is, and a hundred times as imposing.

You jump when a cold hand abruptly curls around your shoulder, sharp fingernails digging somewhat uncomfortably into the delicate skin. Snapping your head to the side, you’re surprised to find Death has aimed a hard glare at the Old one, jaw clenched around barely concealed aggression.

“She’s  _sure_ , maker,” the horseman rumbles, “I made certain myself.”

And just like that, Eideard blinks.

His eyebrows unfurl, softening his features and he takes in the horseman’s guarded stance, your trembling legs and nervous frown that sends a pang of guilt thumping unhappily at his chest.

He’d only been worried, not angry.

Drawing away from you again, he lets his eyes slip shut and grimaces, exhaling softly before opening them.  

“Forgive me,” he utters, bowing his great, golden headdress, “It was not my intention to frighten you. But you need to understand. We  _must_  err on the side of caution. My people have lost so many to Corruption… So far our walls have kept it at bay… But if it were to find its way into the  _village_  somehow….” He trails off, a grim silence left in place of words he needn’t say aloud. You know them well enough.

“You’d all….die..” Swallowing thickly, you take a hesitant step out of Death’s tight grip, noting that his cold fingers clamp down slightly when you move, but in the end, he allows his arm to drop. “It’s okay, I get it – You’re just protecting your people.”

The troubled crease between Eideard’s brow slowly begins to disappear. “Your wisdom surpasses your years, Y/n. Thank you for understanding.”

Pulse easing, you go to lift your shoulders in a dismissive shrug but he holds up a hand and continues, “However, it is not merely  _my_  people that I seek to protect.” Then, he adds more gently, “Are you  _sure_  you’re alright?”

Caught off guard by his remark, you do a fumbling once over. “Um…Yep. Aside from a skimmed knee, I’m right as rain…Kind of sweaty though.”

“I didn’t like to say,” Death throws in, a teasing lilt in his tone that softens your hard pout.

Stroking down the length of his beard, Eideard considers you carefully for a second until his eyes light up and he nods decisively. “I believe there may be something we can do for you there.”

“Oh – I don’t want to be -”

“Now, none of that again.” He waves your refusal aside. “It’s the least we can do after you helped to restore the fire to our forge.”

“I…didn’t really do much.”

At that moment, Karn pipes up. “I bet  _that’s_  not true!”

Standing next to the maker’s boot, Death fixes you with a steady frown. “You did more than you think. Though you perhaps wouldn’t have realised it at the time.”

Blanching a little, you gape at him, speechless.

With an elaborate roll of his eyes, the horseman crosses his arms and holds your stare. “Is it such a difficult concept to grasp that you’re not  _entirely_  useless?” He scrutinises the shining sparkle in your eyes, adding, “And I cannot stress ’ _not entirely_ ’ enough.”

“Well then,” Eideard coughs, “If that’s settled, I imagine you’ll want to clean some of that blood from your hair.”

“Blood!?” you yelp, grabbing a fistful of your locks and finding the ends have stuck together into hard clumps that crunch and crackle when you squeeze them. “Oh God.” You pull a face. “How long has that been there?”

“Since Earth,” the horseman mutters softly.

You let go of the hair, overcome with the desire to either wash it or cut it off. You hadn’t even noticed that it was even there.  _Other_  people’s blood. They must have died so close to you… How close were  _you_  to being one of them?

“Actually, you might be right.” You throw the Old one a relatively pathetic look. “I think I  _do_  want to clean up..”

“Then speak with the shaman.” Eideard turns and points the end of his staff out to the stone gazebo directly opposite Alya’s forge. “She will provide you with a means to bathe.”

Beyond exhausted, you slide one hand over your mouth to stifle a loud yawn. “Sounds ideal, thanks..”

“Not at all,” he smiles and moves to usher you away from Death’s side and off towards the stairs.

Turning to give the horseman a lazy wave over your shoulder, you call, “Guess I’ll see you later then!”

His noncommittal grunt and nod is the closest you’ll get to a 'goodbye,’ so you decide to just take it. At least Karn returns your wave with a vigorous shake of his own, immense hand. He stares longingly at your swiftly retreating little form until the top of your head has disappeared from view down the steps. “Maybe I should follow her, n’ make sure she gets to Muria alright.”

The Old one blinks languidly, eyebrows raising high up onto his wrinkled forehead. “I am fairly confident she can find her own way there without getting into too much trouble.”

Death cringes as he recalls the shadow bomb incident. “Hmph..You don’t know Y/n,” he says matter-of-factly.

Eideard slides his focus down to him. “No. But thanks to  _you_ , horseman, we now have a chance to.”

“Hmph..”

Disregarding Death’s standoffishness, the Old One turns to his fellow maker, finding the distractible youngling has resumed casting a dole eyed stare off into space. “Ahem!” Karn gives a start and shoots his elder a bewildered glance.

“Perhaps,” Eideard continues, “it would be an idea for  _you_  to get some rest as well.”

In a flash, the younger maker snaps to attention, eyes wide and alert. “Nah, m'alright. Tough as old boots, me!"

“Are you certain?” Copious amounts of teasing sympathy drips from the Old One’s tongue. “You seem a little preoccupied.”

Karn’s throat bobs up and down but he swiftly brushes a thumb underneath his nose with a sniff and begins shuffling towards the gate. “What? No, I’m just…just thinkin’ about….er…goin’ on patrol!” Death can practically hear the gears turning in the youngling’s head. Apparently deciding he’s landed on his best excuse, Karn’s ears flick up. “Aye! Gotta go check that western border. Make sure it’s nice and secure if you two’re headin’ down that way tomorrow.” He offers Eideard a stiff nod and flicks two fingers off his forehead at Death. “Right. I’m off.”

And without another word, he turns on his heel and retreats into the tunnel, guided by the soft moonlight seeping down through cracks in the craggy ceiling.

Death and Eideard watch him go in silence until the maker releases the chuckle he’d been holding in. “They seem to get along quite well.”

“Oh yes. Like a horse and trail,” Death agrees coolly, “The way they went on, you’d think they’ve been friends for years.” He lapses into quiet for a moment, arms folding across his chest before muttering, “She didn’t even seem  _vaguely_  afraid of him.”

“Is that a touch of jealousy I hear, horseman?”

“Don’t be absurd,” he snaps just a little too sharply, “It was simply a surprise.”

“Is it really so strange?” The maker gestures after Karn and then turns in the direction you’d disappeared. “They are both young, both lost in their own ways. He is reckless where she is cautious. Perhaps they could learn something from each other.”

Death snorts, tossing him an incredulous look. “You think a human could stand to be _more_ reckless?” He almost laughs aloud. The Old One, for all his wisdom, hadn’t seen how you’d behaved in the Cauldron - how you behave in general. Cautious where it really doesn’t matter, reckless when it most  _definitely_  does. 

“Caution will keep her alive, yes,” Eideard continues, “and I am glad of that. But too  _much_  caution and she will lose that hunger for life, for adventure. Then…” Pausing, he blows softly through pursed lips and tilts his head back to admire the stars. “Well… _You’ve_ seen the husks left behind, of those whose spirits have abandoned their bodies long before they’ve reached the end of their mortal coil.”

“The line between cautious and reckless….A difficult edge to balance on,” the horseman muses.

“Aye. But one  _you_  balance on every day, I’d wager.” The maker casts a sidelong glance at him, a thumb gliding up and down the tapered end of his braid. “In which case it would seem they could  _both_  learn something from  _you_.”

“I’ve never been a good teacher, Old One..”

“On he contrary,” Eideard hums softly, a faraway look in his melancholy eyes, “In all my years, I have found no teacher more efficacious than death.”

—–

Upon reaching the bottom of the stairs, a loud snort has you jumping a mile and whipping about to face Thane’s training circle, heart thumping away in your throat. However, you soon discover the source of the noise is none other than the old warrior himself. He’s sitting on the bench next to a water trough, hunched forwards with his hands gripped loosely around his axe’s handle, eyes closed and mighty chest rising and falling steadily. For half a second, you freeze, thinking he’s about to lift his head and fix you with a piercing, steely gaze. However, after taking a closer look, you breathe a sigh of relief.

He’s just dozing.

Safe from any probing questions from the brusque maker, you turn and pad softly down the walkway.

Dozens of glowstones have been meticulously embedded into the walls at regular intervals, softly illuminating the shaman’s little corner of Tri Stone. Across the way, Alya and Valus have been helpfully provided with a different, much more effective light source. A steady stream of molten lava oozes lazily along a sloping, artificial waterway, carved by hand into the mountainside. It runs from the mouth of a gargantuan pipe all the way down into a shallow canal that sweeps in a curve around the smaller forge, carrying the lava to where it’s most needed.

Brushing a hand along the wall as you go, you soon find yourself climbing the steps up to the shaman’s domed gazebo. A long, stone trough arches in a semi-circle around the interior wall and inside it, if you stand on your toes, you can make out a thick layer of dark, dry soil. Although it looks to be more dust than dirt, even under the ethereally levitating ball of light that hovers near the ceiling and beats back the shadows of night.

At the rear, the shaman stands with her back to you, her wooden staff raised high into the air and one hand stretched out towards the soil, fingers spread wide. Before your eyes, the dirt begins to shift, pushed aside by leafy green ferns that erupt upwards from nowhere and reach desperately for the roof.

The maker grunts, her shoulders quaking under an invisible strain.

“Take root, damn you!” she curses, thrusting her staff even higher. But it’s clear when the effort becomes too much, for she collapses forwards, staggering to remain upright and drops her arms heavily, the staff’s end clunking against the hard floor.

You stand on the threshold, hands awkwardly fisting into your skirt as a thought occurs.

For the life of you, you can’t remember her name.

Should you just call one out and hope for the best? Announce yourself or knock? There isn’t a door….You could rap your knuckles on the stone pillar to your right. On second thoughts, that might hurt-

“Greetings, human.”

You jump out of your skin, snapped back to the present by the sound of her sonorous voice.

She’s turned around to angle a smile at the entrance, head tilted down slightly. “I am glad to hear you have return in one piece.”

Letting out a short, embarrassed cough, you rub at the back of your head and step fully into the gazebo.

“How’d you know it was me?”

“Your footsteps,” she explains patiently, abandoning the trough and treading elegantly across the floor to stand in front of you, “Too heavy to be the horseman’s, too light to be a fellow maker.”

“Wow. You have  _very_  good hearing.”

Smirking, she raises a hand to tap the side of her blindfold.

“Right,” you wince, “Guess you kind of have to, huh?”

“Indeed.”

At that moment, a blue light emanating from the gnarled end of her staff catches your eye. “Was that magic?” you ask, waving your fingers through the air and shuddering at the tingling residue of static energy that dances along your skin.

Brushing a thick section of silver hair over one, sloping shoulder, the shaman exhales softly and inclines her head. “It was, for all the good it now does. One of my simpler spells, meant to coax the life from a seed. But…” She pauses to sweep a hand back towards the troughs. “The soil is too dry…The roots refuse to take, and even  _magic_  is no longer enough to sustain life.” She breathes a troubled sigh, whispering, “It is  _imperative_  the Tears of the Mountain are restored soon.” 

Cocking a hip, she shakes her head and gracefully waves the worry aside. “But that is a matter for another day. Tell me, what troubles you, young one.”

Uncertain, you scratch the back of your neck and take deep breath, deciding to risk it. “Well, Ma-…Um. Maria?”

To your dismay, the maker chuckles warmly behind her hand. “Close,” she smirks, “ _Muria_.”

Drowning in the weight of your own embarrassment, you drop your head into a palm with a groan. “Urgh, I  _knew_  that! Why did I forget? This conversation is going terribly.”

Sympathy pushes Muria’s soft lips up at the corners. “On the contrary, you’re doing fine. Considering what you’ve been through, a forgotten name or two is to be expected.”

“I guess so..”

“You mustn’t let it discourage you,” she continues, “In time, you will find your mind returns to what it once was.”

In spite of your doubt, you permit just a sliver of optimism to brighten your tone. “I sure hope you’re right.”

A knowing smile dashes across her face. “You’ll see….Now, what did you come here to ask me?”

“Oh! Right, right…So, Eideard mentioned you might have a way for me to get clean?” You fiddle self-consciously with the hem of your tank top. “I, uh..I dread to think what I look like. Probably covered head to toe in dirt and sweat….”

“Ah, yes. A few hours in the Cauldron will drench the brow of even the most seasoned smith.” Muria purses her lips and hums thoughtfully whilst her fingers – each adorned with thick bands of silver – run delicately over the spine of a monstrous tome hanging from her brown belt. “Mmm. The pothole,” she eventually muses, largely to herself, “Yes, that should do nicely..” With that, the shaman moves forwards, sweeping past you to the steps, her staff tapping each one before she takes it.

Swiftly, and far less gracefully despite having the advantage of sight, you patter along behind her, almost tripping over your tired feet. “Pothole? You mean the things that destroy car tyres?”

She leads you back towards Thane’s training grounds but before reaching it, she suddenly veers off right, heading for the enormous, hollow tree trunk you’d entered the village through yesterday. A quick glance to your left confirms that Thane still has yet to stir, and is in fact slumped backwards to rest against the wall at his rear, arms now folded tightly across his hulking chest and the axe discarded on the ground next to his feet. You stifle a soft snort, reminded briefly of an uncle who’s fallen asleep at a party.

Up ahead, the tail of Muria’s intricate, blue robe disappears into the dark trunk and with one last glance up at the stars, you hurry after her.

—

Giant bugs resembling earthen fireflies flit and zip around the narrow, covered gorge, each one roughly the length of your finger. They emit a dazzling, golden light that flickers on and off at regular intervals and you find yourself mesmerised, at least until one of them zooms just a little too close to your nose and you have to resist the urge to flap it away.

“Here we are,” Muria announces suddenly, stopping just a few dozen yards from the fallen tree next to a rock ledge that stands level with her elbows.

A small waterfall tumbles steadily from a gap in the canyon wall and down onto the ridge, where over the centuries, a bowl shaped hole has been naturally formed, eroded away by falling water.

The shaman peers down to the ground. “Can you climb up here?” she asks, resting a gentle hand on the flat rock. “Or would you prefer a lift?”

“That’s okay,” you reply, scrutinising the stone for footholds, “ _Looks_  easy enough..”

“I suppose I shall have to take your word for it.”

Her tone is teasing, yet still you squeak out a quick, “Sorry,” and scrabble up the uneven surface, slipping a few times before you readjust your grip, the promise of a refreshing shower spurring you on. After some time spent clawing and shimmying your way up, you finally reach the top and give a noisy huff, planting both hands on your hips and peering into the dark pool, only to find the surface is too churned and choppy thanks to the cascading water to allow you a glimpse at your reflection. ’ _Probably for the best._ ’

Suddenly, you exclaim, “Ooh,  _pot_ hole. I get it.”

Propping her staff up against the wall, Muria leans forwards and rests her elbows on the ledge, chin settling elegantly over the back of her folded knuckles. “Mmm. I’m afraid that without the Tears, this is our closest source of water.”

“Tears?” you echo, kicking off your leather boots, “That’s the other thing you need right? To make the forge work?”

She hums affirmatively whilst you start hooking your thumbs into the hem of your skirt, only pausing to glance at her looming, placid face just a few feet away. “Uh…”

As though she can read your mind - a concept that wouldn’t surprise you, in all honesty - the corner of her mouth twitches, “No, my sight has  _not_  miraculously returned to me, little one.”

A warm flush creeps up your neck and you mentally kick yourself. “Oh yeah. Sorry, I just…Okay.”

Clamping your mouth firmly shut, you shimmy out of the skirt, kicking it to one side next to the boots and then, you go about shuffling your tights down.

Once both legs are bare, you raise the tank top up and off your head, dropping it with a plop onto the steadily growing pile of clothes. After a split second decision, you elect to keep your underwear on. Even though she’s blind, having the shaman’s face so close is still somewhat disconcerting.

The night has settled into a comfortable warmth, but goosebumps still spring up all along your bare skin as you turn your back to her and stick one foot into the water.

It’s cold. But not unbearably so.

Deciding to simply take the plunge, so to speak – ’ _Ha. Karn would appreciate that_.’ - you draw in a lungful of air and slide into the pool, letting out a sharp gasp when the water hits your naked skin.

“Cold?” Muria prompts from behind.

Paddling around to face her, you respond through chattering teeth, “No-not….r-really, no-o.”

Her silky laughter travels above the sound of the splashing waterfall and bounces off the walls, resonating all along the gorge and out through the hollow tree trunk. 

After the heat you’d faced during the day however, cold is more a blessing than she might realise. Already the brisk water has lifted two days’ worth of grime and sweat from the surface of your skin, no longer tinged grey with soot from the Cauldron’s atmosphere. Treading water, you suck down a big lungful of air and hold it in before dunking your whole head underneath the rippling surface.

The relief is instantaneous. 

Fresh water soothes your tired eyelids and chapped lips, lifting the hair from your sticky neck and softening long-dried clumps of blood gathered on the tips. 

For some time, you simply remain where you are, suspended in blissful darkness, halfway between the rock below, and air above with the only sound a muffled drone of water beating down into the pothole from somewhere overhead. 

For the first time in days, you feel…. peaceful.

–

The moment you became submerged, Muria’s smile wavered for a fraction of a second, hit with a faint glimmer of concern as she realised you’d gone under entirely, though she soon shook the worry from her shoulders. Maker younglings may not be able to swim, but she’s heard it said that humans  _can_. However, that doesn’t stop her heart from skipping a beat when her sensitive hearing ceased to pick up on your fluttering heartbeat. 

She waits patiently, counting the seconds until you resurface. 

Suddenly, you come up for air with a long, deep gasp and she’s grateful that the splashing water drowns out the sound of her soft exhale. “ _There_  you are,” she chides playfully, “I was about to come in after you.”  

Kicking your way over to the edge, you rest your elbows on the smooth, wet rock and hum, peering up at her through half-lidded eyes, tiny droplets of water clinging to your lashes. “Might have been a bit of a squash.”

Overhead, a couple of the glowing insects buzz lazily through the air. One of them lands on the blue flower adorning Muria’s hair, throwing flickering shadows across her face. 

“What are those?” you ask, rubbing at a stubborn patch of soot on your arm that turns out to be a faint bruise, “Those bugs. The shiny ones.” 

Absently, Muria curls a finger around a section of hair, dislodging the insect which gives a quick flutter of its dainty wings and zips off to find another perch, this time on a thick fern leaf that hangs from the cave wall just above your private pool. 

“Lunar thrips?” she cocks her head, “Harmless little things, really. They only come out at night. Why do you ask?” 

“It’s just that…we have something similar on Earth,” you murmur, resting your chin on a hand and letting your legs kick languidly through the water behind you, “but we call them fireflies and they’re about three times smaller.” 

“It seems our worlds have a few things in common after all.” 

“Yeah,” you agree with a small grin, but it’s soon lost underneath a gentle frown, “Yeah…they do.” 

She must have picked up on the trace of longing because her own brow creases too, bunching up the edges of her blindfold. “You must be missing home terribly.” 

Stabbing a nail into your palm to stop yourself from choking out a wet rasp, you sweep a hand up towards the thrips. “I  _must_  be. I mean I’m looking for it in everything I see.”

She’s silent for a time, simply listening to the sound of your laboured breathing and the sniffles you try so desperately to cover up. Then, smooth as silk, she utters, “You know, I don’t believe I ever gave you my condolences.” 

You blink up at her, taken aback before you collect yourself and croak in a voice so soft, she can barely hear it, “Yeah…well…I didn’t give you mine either. Eideard told me about what you guys have lost too.” You glance up at her and shake your head sadly. “I’m so  _sorry_ , Muria.”” 

Affection, pure and unchecked, races to the front of her chest. It’s the first time she’s heard someone  _other_  than a fellow maker utter those words. “That is..kind of you to say.” 

“Not as kind as you’ve all been to me.” Letting your mouth hang open for a moment, you mull over your words, eyes narrowing, and ask, “Why… _are_  you being so nice to me?” 

“You need a reason?” An eyebrow creeps out from behind her blindfold, rising steadily up onto her forehead. 

“Well, it’s just…” You pause to lift your torso out of the water, pulling yourself further up onto the rock and resting on your forearms, “S’just that, I didn’t do  _anything_  for you. You all just  _started_  being really kind to me.”

“Are those the grounds for kindness?” Muria queries, “One cannot be kind unless kindness first is given?” 

Feeling just the slightest bit as though you’re being admonished, you duck your head. “I… Well, no.” 

The maker’s face softens. “If everyone waited around for someone else to be kind first, why, we’d never make  _any_  friends, and the world would be a lonely place indeed.” 

“I…guess I’d never thought of it like that before,” you muse, sparing her an appraising glance, “So that’s why you’re being so nice to me? You want us to be friends?” 

“In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re running low on them these days,” she quips. 

“Mmm. That makes two of us.” 

Just then, her shadow falls over you as she pushes up off the ledge and stands to her full, intimidating height, taking her staff in hand once more. “Come now, we can continue this conversation another time. The night wears on, and it is high time you put your head down somewhere flat.” 

Your heart sinks and you bite your lip, quietly mumbling, “Do I have to?” She doesn’t appear to have heard you however, so you hoist yourself up to sit on the edge of the pool, shuddering as the air hits your bare skin. With a sluggishness brought on by reluctance  _and_  fatigue, you drag yourself over to the discarded pile of clothes, pulling a face at the prospect of having to put them on while they’re still wet. 

All of a sudden, you jump when a warm tingle unexpectedly sparks to life in your palms and spreads evenly up each of your arms. Startled, you flip them over, inspecting the flesh closely but find there’s no change to your skin tone, nor any sign of a wound. Just a warmth that has by now reached your chest, blooming outwards until every inch of you is cocooned in a comforting heat, and the water droplets still clinging to you have begun to evaporate. 

Throwing the shaman a curious glance, you ask, “Are  _you_  doing that?”

In response, Muria simply inclines her head and says matter of factly, “I didn’t think you’d like being in wet clothes.”

“So you used magic to dry me?” Clicking your tongue, you begin stepping into your skirt and pulling it up over your hips. “That’s actually pretty cool.” 

Muria’s easy smile vanishes in an instant. “Cool?” she says, concerned, “Odd. It was supposed to be warm.” 

One hand fighting to stuff itself awkwardly through an arm hole in your tank top, you grunt, “N-No! Cool’s just another word for, like…great, or awesome. Uh..Hunky dory? You know,  _cool_.” 

Gradually, the maker bobs her head up and down. “Oh I see. Cool,” she repeats, testing the new meaning on her tongue before she huffs out a quick laugh. “Even at my age, it seems I can stand to learn a few things from today’s youth.” Waiting a few more minutes until she hears you scrambling down the rock and thud softly onto the ground, she starts making her way back along the tunnel, calling over a shoulder, “Now, come. You must be exhausted.” 

You meander between the lunar thrips, head kept low to stare at the end of Muria’s swishing dress as she strolls ahead. 

The silence is only broken again once you reach the tree trunk. 

Giving your little finger an anxious tug, you swallow drily and let out a trembling exhale. “Boy..Tonight’s gonna be rough, huh?” 

The shaman slows, a quiet ‘ah’ slipping past her lips. ‘The heart of the matter.’ She’d been wondering when you would address this next obstacle. Concentrating hard, she becomes aware of your tiny heart thundering away inside a dainty ribcage like a frightened animal, hurling itself at the bone with desperate zeal. 

“Oh, little one,” she croons, turning to face you, and if you weren’t on the verge of breaking down right then and there, you might have taken offence to the term of endearment. “If you wish for one of us to stay with you tonight-”

“No!” you hurry to cut her off.  _God_  knows you won’t ask any more of these people. “No, I - I’ll be alright.”

She lets out an uncertain hum. “Are you sure? If not  _us_ , then…perhaps the horseman -” 

Once again, she finds herself interrupted when you blurt out another refusal. “ _Really_ , don’t - don’t ask Death. I’m an adult, I can deal with…” You wring your hands together nervously. “…with whatever happens.” 

In spite of the strip of cloth, you can  _feel_  the maker’s unseeing gaze bore into you. It takes a moment, but eventually, her enormous chest heaves around a hefty sigh, a sign of her relenting. “If you change your mind,” she says, swinging around and feeling her way along the narrow trunk, “You know where to find me.”

————-

“There is another matter, Old One….I… _require_  your advice..”

Back in front of the village gate, Eideard turns an appraising stare down at Death, one eyebrow creeping up his wrinkled forehead. He’d suspected the horseman had something on his busy mind, something he’d been trying to figure out how to voice since they watched Karn disappear through the village gate. Thus, the elder stayed on Tri-Stone’s upper tier alongside him, patiently waiting for Death to steer the conversation. 

“The Reaper himself comes to a maker for advice, of all things,” the giant rumbles, “This truly is a day for accomplishments.”

A resulting glare from the Nephilim could freeze a lesser creature solid. “It’s about the girl,” he gripes.

At his words, Eideard’s expression drifts into the realm of tender. “Yes, I imagined it might be. What has you so worried?”

Unsurprisingly, Death is on the defensive in a moment. Drawing his shoulders up, he scoffs darkly, “You mistake me for one of your own,  _maker_.  ** _I_  **do not worry.”

The infuriatingly amused glint in the Old One’s eyes returns and suddenly, Death wants very much to snatch that glimmer out and grind it under a heel. Instead, he settles for simply glowering, infuriated – not because Eideard was wrong, but because he was  _right_. And they both know it, regardless of how practiced Death is at hiding any trace of concern. 

Eventually, he sighs, conceding. “She has…a complex, of a sort. I’d call it a hero complex if she didn’t think so little of herself.” He pauses. “Perhaps a martyr?”

The old one shifts his weight to lean more heavily against his staff. “How so? What happened out there?”

Shaking his head, Death makes a bee line for the low bulwark spanning the distance between each staircase. Turning to rest back against it, he folds his arms across his chest and frowns.

Curious as to the horseman’s atypical behaviour, Eideard follows suit, taking a few, long strides to stand next to the smaller being and sweeping a watchful eye over the village below.

It takes several seconds before Death speaks again, but when he does, his voice it thick with a tension indicative of his reluctance to display any inkling that he might  _actually_ have a heart after all.

“She can’t defend herself -” he begins slowly, “- Rather, it’s as though she  _won’t_.”

The old one simply bows his head in acknowledgement, a silent prompt for Death to continue.

Absently picking his wrappings loose, the horseman sets about unwinding and re-securing them meticulously, if only to give its itching fingers something to do. “Three times…” he murmurs, aware of the maker’s blue robes rustling as he shifts closer to hear, “Three times she’s frozen in the face of what tries to kill her. But…three times she’s nearly died leaping to defend another – namely myself and Karn. She’s no hero, Old one. Not by a long shot.”

He finally drops the ratty bandages and swivels his head around to trap Eideard in a deliberate stare, studying the aged face carefully. “So,  _why_? Why then strive to protect others but not oneself?”

“You know humanity better than I, horseman,” the Old one points out, “Can you  _truly_  think of no reason?”

Gradually, Death’s glare slides down the maker’s plaited beard which now glows an ethereal silver in the fleeting patches of moonlight.

“I can,” he utters after a few beats, “but I’ve been wrong before.. And a second opinion is never a bad idea.”

“Ah. I see. Rather than my advice, you want me to confirm your suspicions?”

The horseman nods sagely and Eideard hesitates, pensively gliding his tongue over a sharp canine. Tapping a few fingers against his beard, he glances to the fallen tree that you and Muria had disappeared into, and lowers his voice. “I believe martyr may be an unreasonable judgement,” he ventures carefully, “She has not suffered willingly. She cannot help what happened to her and she doesn’t particularly strike me as the type who seeks sympathy  _for_  that suffering.”

“Because you know her  _so_  well,” Death interrupts a little too brusquely.

With a frankly absurd level of patience only achieved through eons of experience, Eideard responds, “Do  _you_?”

At that, the horseman’s jaw snaps shut.

“If I may?” the elder continues, “I think the answer to her behaviour is as simple as it is….sad. It seems to me that while she cares very much that others live, she does not extend the same courtesy to herself. Horseman-” He swings his massive bulk around to face the gate, resting a heel up against the low wall and letting out a laboured sigh. “- She's  _waiting_  to die.”

From the corner of his eye, he spies the nephilim’s head lower until the chin of his bone mask nearly thunks against his sharp collar bone. Softer than a breeze, Death exhales, “I thought as much.”

From below, the telltale sound of approaching voices catch their attention and they both turn to look over Thane’s arena, towards the tree to find you and Muria emerging from its trunk. Absently, Death notes how much smaller you look with your hair plastered to your skull like that. 

“Would you like me to speak with her?” Eideard mutters from the corner of his mouth.

Just as quietly, the horseman replies with a detached shrug “Do what you think is best, Old one.”

“Mm. I’ll have a word.” The maker observes as you stop at the beginning of the main walkway and gesture up to where he and Death stand. “But so should  _you_.”

The horseman scoffs. “Me? I think you’ll find I’m better at taking lives than I am at saving them.”

“And yet – here you are. Slowly restoring life to my realm and aiming to restore humanity to hers.” His enormous hand sweeps in your direction. The Shaman is shaking her head and pointing firmly at the silent maker’s forge, an action that has you slumping in defeat.

“I do this to save War from condemnation. Nothing more,” Death replies flippantly.

The Old one allows himself the tiniest roll of his eyes but remains silent, smiling when it appears that Muria has succeeded in convincing you to retire, for you scuff a boot against the ground but turn and reluctantly shuffle off down the walkway, dragging your feet with her in tow.

“This matter should be addressed swiftly,” the elder remarks, “but not tonight. Doubtless, she has enough on her mind…” He looks down and is surprised to discover that the horseman is no longer leaning back against the low, stone wall, but has crossed to the staircase and placed one boot on the first step when he’s stopped by Eideard calling, “Oh, before you go-”

The eldest Nephilim’s head twitches towards him a little.

“- Thank you, Death. For restoring fire to the Forge.”

For a while, Death stays perfectly still. But then, almost too fast for the maker to see, he nods and like a shadow, vanishes down the steps.

————-

The heavy door leading into the maker’s forge thuds closed as Muria steps outside again. A resonant clamour rings out through the whole village and rouses Thane from his light doze. The old warrior jolts with a snort, one hand flying out to fumble around for his axe’s handle, head jerking from side to side in search of a threat. Remembering where he is, Thane’s bushy eyebrows furrow and he stretches his arms into the air, rolling a kink out of his neck before settling back against the wall, moustache twitching. Storm-grey eyes slip closed and he allows his mind to wander off yet again.

—–

In the lowest courtyard of Tri Stone, on the granite bench just outside the door to the maker’s forge, Death sits, legs crossed over one another with his wrists slung across each knee, head dipped low and his eyes only half shut.

Corpse-like, his pale body doesn’t move. No muscle trembles, no strand of midnight black hair lifts to greet the warm breeze…To a passerby, the horseman might appear asleep. However, if they were to risk a closer look, they’d soon find that they were sorely mistaken as a pair of eyes – blazing red, orange and gold – snap open and swivel up to glare at whomever had deigned to bother him.

In truth, Death is all too alert, his keen ears turned and attuned to the muffled sounds seeping under the door.

Humans – he’s discovered – can cry on account of anything and everything.

It isn’t a criticism made by a presumptuous nephilim. It’s a fact of the universe and one of the most bizarre aspects of a human being he’s ever witnessed.

Anger leads to tears.

Fear too.

Happiness? Tears.

Misery, hurt. Love and hatred? Absolutely.

Humans can look at a sunset and break down, and Death has often caught himself wandering what it must be like to feel everything with such reckless abandon. To be so filled up with a feeling, their frail little bodies can’t contain it, so it spills out..

Just as it’s spilling out of  _her_  now.

Well…from what he can hear, it doesn’t so much spill as it does explode, try as she might to stifle it. But the firstborn has too good a pair of ears for her to hide from him.

The only sign that he’s listening comes after another vicious sob that’s almost immediately lost into whatever fabric the shaman had lent for her to sleep on. His heavy lids give the minutest of flickers.

This crying is….difficult to listen to.

This isn’t  _one_  human pouring out its anguish to a dead forge. Those are the tears of seven  _billion_  humans, seven billion souls who never got their chance to cry.

At this moment, she’s probably feeling pain in its rawest form, a pain that transcends the physical hurt. There isn’t a poultice in the universe that can heal this wound. Which is exactly why he doesn’t venture inside.

What could  _he_  do? Death – the physical manifestation of the state of her people. The being who ripped her from Earth and everything she’d ever known.

At last, the horseman stirs, but only to uncross his legs and let them dangle over the side of the bench as he releases a pent up sigh.

To his right, and shooting him the filthiest, most accusing glare he’s ever seen, is Dust. With deliberate slowness, Death drags his gaze down to the crow and he blinks. “What?”

He’s instantly met with a scathing hiss.

Rather than enter into a dispute, the horseman merely slouches forwards, long hair tumbling around his shoulders. “And what  _precisely_  is it that you expect me to say if I go in?” he whispers lowly, “Mine is not a shoulder she can cry on.” A moment later, his eyebrows knit together and with a shake of his head, he murmurs, “It’d only make her  _cold_  anyway.”

—

Several metres away on the other side of the door, you’ve weakly leant yourself up against the adjacent wall with a white-knuckle grip on the soft, fur blanket that Muria had kindly retrieved for you.

Though your eyes burn with tears and exhaustion, you fight to keep them open, lids stretched wide and petrified while your mouth stays buried in the white fur, muffling your wails. Last night, you’d been too physically overwhelmed to remain conscious. Your body – still in shock – had shut down of its own accord, and in doing so, it protected you from having to think and address what has happened to you. During the day, you found yourself in a new world filled with distractions galore, not to mention a horseman who broke the silence  _just_  often enough that your mind wouldn’t start to dwell.

Now though, in the darkness of the maker’s forge, Death isn’t here and the night is deafening in spite of the monotonous rumble passing by somewhere deep below the earth. Although you’re tired, you aren’t quite tired enough to drop, as you wish you would.  

Instead, you find yourself trapped in this hellish limbo, an endless cycle of helplessness, terror and anguish that loops and loops and then loops again. Just a tired ensemble of, ’ _I’m all alone!_ ’

’ _I’m never gonna see another human again!_ ’

’ _Everyone’s….dead_.’

It’s a claustrophobic kind of fear. Your legs are itching to run, to pace, to do something, however you’re shivering too violently to convince your jittery muscles to stand.

The tears spilling like rivulets down your cheeks soak into the fur clutched between your fingers, your only source of comfort. Trying to ground yourself, you take in a long, unsteady breath, willing the air to wash away the thick panic in your gut.

It doesn’t work, and another swell of dread bubbles up from somewhere deep inside, urging you to pry your jaws apart and let out an awful, howling scream, this one hurting a little more than the last. Any power behind the sound is lost into the blanket’s folds.  

Throat raw, chest aching from the strain of crying so hard, you suffer through the grief well into the night.

By the time you’ve worn yourself out enough to finally,  _finally_  nod off, you’ve slumped uncomfortably down the hard wall, your neck bent awkwardly to rest on one shoulder. Salty tears have dried on your eyelids, fusing your lashes together in a way that’ll no doubt sting in the morning when you try to peel them apart.

You entered a light slumber, twitching half awake every now and again with a soft gasp and pounding heart before falling right back to sleep.

The next time you stir, it’s to the odd sensation of weightlessness and a pressure sliding under your knees and around your shoulders. With your brain still completely sleep-addled, you merely grumble and turn to bury your face into the presence at your side.

And then, just like that, you’re lying flat on a hard surface and moments later, a heavy warmth is settled over you from toe to chin, smoothing the slight frown that had begun to crease your brow.

Arduously, you try to slur something. A name perhaps?

But you soon settle down again as a gentle pressure brushes lightly across your forehead, sweeping away several strands of tickling hair that had become stuck in a light sheen of sweat. A cold breeze rolls past your cheek and just like that, the presence is gone.

Unconsciousness creeps up on you again, urging you to succumb to some desperately needed sleep. With a soft exhale, you welcome it, but not before one of your hands finds its way up to your face of its own accord, fingers rubbing lazily at the strange, icy tingle lingering on your forehead.


	9. The Edge of Burnout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, so sorry this had such a long hiatus but it’s here now yay! :) I wrote this while I was super busy with volunteering and taking care of my mental health etc, so it might have a slightly different tone. Hopefully the next chapter won’t take long to come out <3 <3 <3

Exhausted. There isn’t a much better word you could think to use with regards to your current state of being. A dull, relentless throb starts at the back of your head the moment you rouse yourself from a paltry slumber, and waking up once again to the cold, damp walls of the makers’ forge instead of your familiar bedroom doesn’t help matters either.

It takes a tremendous amount of willpower to drag yourself upright, raise your hands to your face and bite down hard on a finger to keep the frustrated tears at bay. Only when you trust your head not to collapse in on itself do you peel your eyes open and realise that you’ve somehow found yourself on the ground next to the central anvil, your jumper clumsily folded and propped beneath your head.

Confusion slowly replaces your initial misery.   
You have no recollection of even getting  _over_  here, let alone fashioning a makeshift pillow for yourself. In fact, the last thing you recall is falling to your knees right inside the door, leaning up against the wall and stifling your cries in a blanket as you surrendered to the breakdown that had been nipping at your heels since you left Earth.

However, too tired to give the sudden position change any real degree of conscious thought, you brush it off, untangling your legs from the furs and getting to your feet. “I guess Eideard must’ve moved me.”

A wide yawn stretches your mouth and almost immediately, you begin to sway, wincing as the pain in your head reaches its peak, and then blessedly starts fading to a dull, ignorable ache. Once your vision stops swimming, you trundle down the steps, dragging your feet towards the forge’s entrance, all the while struggling to keep your eyes from slipping shut.

— 

To say that Alya was excited about having the fires restored would be a vast understatement. She was absolutely  _ecstatic_. As soon as the first spots of lava began to dribble out of the enormous pipe above Tri Stone, she grabbed her reluctant brother and swung him around their little forge, whooping and hollering like a demon. All through the night, she continued to buzz excitedly and come morning, a broad grin is  _still_  plastered across her face as she works a whetstone over a dull, old blade, humming merrily.

She clocks Death right away as he appears on the steps of her stone gazebo. “Haha! Horseman!” she laughs, jumping up from the crate she’d been sitting on and carelessly dropping her handful to one side, “The Fires of the Mountain flow again!”

Raising a brow at the discarded blade and whetstone, the horseman stops just in front of her and lifts his head back, leaning his weight nonchalantly onto one leg. “Yes. Funny that in sending a horseman, the job tends to actually get  _done_.” He pauses to see if his retort has dampened her ridiculous grin.

It hasn’t.

Sighing, he admits, “Although, it wasn’t  _all_  my doing. Karn helped as well.”

That, at least, gets the maker’s expression to shift. Alya’s eyebrows fly up her head and she sputters, mouth agape. “Karn?  _That_  Pup!? But he hasn’t a clue!”

Behind her, Valus grunts and stops his work at the anvil to give her a pointed stare.

“I suppose you’re right…” she sighs after a few seconds of silent conversation that Death can’t hope to decipher, “The forge  _does_  burn once more.” Then, chewing on her lips, she mutters to herself, “Not that it’ll go to his head or anything…”

Nodding his acquiesce, the horseman grumbles, “Oh, I imagine it probably will.”

“And Y/n?” Alya’s ears perk forwards, at last seeming to notice the absence of one human. “Is she alright?”

“She’s still in one piece, if that’s what you mean.”

“Oh, thank the Stone. How’d she get on in the Cauldron?”

“Well, she nearly -“ Death hesitates, squinting an eye shut and pulling a face beneath his mask. Perhaps it would be prudent  _not_  to mention the incident with the Shadow Bomb almost detonating in your hand, even if you  _did_  end up inadvertently revealing the path forward as a result. “…We… ran into a spot of bother with a construct, and Y/n had the foresight to distract it long enough th`t I could take it out.”

“Saved by a human, eh?” The maker’s eyes sparkle with unconcealed amusement. “How far the mighty have fallen.”

If he didn’t think it would only serve to delight her further, Death would take the bait and fall into an argument that he’d have been absolutely fine  _without_  your interference, that he doesn’t need help from  _anyone_ , much less a timid, clumsy little human who’s bark and bite are as about as formidable as a gnat’s. 

But then…in spite of all that, you  _did_  help, which should count for something. At the very least, you don’t deserve to be derided by a cynical, old nephilim, not when you defied your own instincts and chose to fight instead of flee. You’d surprised him when you defended the young maker, even more so when you had the foresight to  _distract_  Gharn rather than attack him. Death had already seen evidence of the courage you have hidden away under the surface of your skin, but yesterday, you’d shown an ability to strategise, to play to your strengths without surrendering to panic. 

He doesn’t say any of this aloud, of course. In the end, he settles for remaining silent and tossing Alya his iciest glare. 

It’s a good thing he kept his mouth shut too, for just then, Alya flicks her eyes up to look at something behind him. “Ah, speak of the wee devil….”

Lo and behold, when Death cocks his head back over a shoulder, he spies a tired, scraggly human trudging up the steps towards them and very nearly falling over her own feet on the way.

Even at a half glance, he can tell just how badly you must have slept.

Eyes bloodshot and half obscured by thick, drooping lids that barely seem capable of keeping themselves open, your jaw stretches into a wide yawn which you groggily try to cover with a hand, mumbling out a soft, ’ _G'morning_ ’ before sidling up next to Death only to catch him off guard by leaning up against him and knocking your shoulder with his. The horseman stiffens, momentarily stunned as you nuzzle your cheek into his pale skin and let out a contented sigh through your nose, evidently still half asleep.

Fully aware that a grin has begun to stretch its way across Alya’s face, he clears his throat and gently nudges you upright with the elbow you’re pressed into.

Eyes snapping open, you give a start and blurt out, “M’ up! I’m up!” 

“Aye,” Alya chuckles, tossing her brother a knowing glance, “And lookin’ like you oughtn’t to be. Tired?”

“M'fine.” Embarrassed, you scrub at your sore eyes and give your warm cheeks a few pats. Satisfied that you won’t topple over where you stand, you plaster on a smile and aim it at Death. “So, when are we heading out?”

“Heh, eager to get to those Tears, ain’tchya?” Alya chuckles.

‘ _Eager_ ,’ the horseman muses privately, ‘ _Or anxious_.’ Either way, your question raises one of his own and he turns back to the forge sister. “That reminds me, where might we  _find_  the tears of the mountain?”

“To the west,” she replies, “past the fjord and into the Drenchfort.”

Whilst Alya and Death fall into a discussion about the ins and outs of actually  _reaching_  the Tears, you grow restless and amble towards the large, silent maker standing over the anvil, afraid that if you stay still for too long, you’ll fall asleep on your feet. With his mask securely in place, Valus tirelessly brings a welding hammer down onto a piece of metal, although being on the ground makes it impossible to see what it is, prompting you to ask, “Hey, what’re you making?”

He jumps slightly, tipping his head down to seek out the source of your tiny voice. Once he finds you, he lets out a grunt and happily lifts his unshaped weapon from the anvil, tilting it for you to see. As far as you can tell, the square, irregular lump of metal looks to be the beginnings of an axe head.

“An…axe?” you guess, smiling when he nods before returning it to the anvil.   
But just as Valus raises his hammer again, something gives him pause and he glances back down at you, doing a double-take and cocking his head to one side with a curious hum.

You’re forced to stumble backwards as he suddenly lowers himself onto one knee and begins reaching out. “W-what is it?” you stammer, eyeing the silent maker’s encroaching hand.

Wordlessly, he extends a finger, causing you to stiffen when it nudges carefully against the sword hanging from your belt.

All at once, realisation dawns and you relax. “ _Oh_ , you’re wondering where I got this sword?” Tugging it out of its sheathe, you present it to him, glancing between the blade and his mask, wishing you could see his expression. “It’s Karn’s. Well, I found it in one of Thane’s barrels, but Karn’s letting me  _keep_  it.”

Valus makes an amused sound at the back of his throat and turns his hand over, quietly asking to have a closer look. For a few seconds, you hesitate, but eventually place the sword into his palm and step back whilst his fist closes around the hilt and he lifts it up, scrutinising it carefully and then balancing the ends between his fingertips to check the weight.

Just then, Thane’s words come back to you - ‘ _I thought Valus had melted that down for scrap?_ ’ - and a rush of anxiousness washes over you, suddenly concerned for the wellbeing of your weapon.

“Is there something wrong with it?” you blurt out, stepping closer.

Valus must have heard the mild worry in your tone, for he lowers his hands and roves his gaze down towards you. Another moment passes, and then, to your relief, he shakes his head from side to side and slowly returns the sword, which you take gratefully and slip back into the scabbard, unable to keep a hold of your happy sigh.

“Oh, that’s good, thanks!”

“Y/n!”

Jumping at the sound of Death’s call, you swivel about and find that he and Alya have finished their discussion and are staring at you expectantly, the horseman lifting his arm to beckon you over. “Time to go.”

Casting a last, lingering smile at Valus, you offer him a wave before making your way to the horseman’s side.

“Did you two have a nice chat?” he asks casually, jutting his chin at the larger maker who lets out his signature grunt and moves back over to the anvil. The horseman heads towards the stairs whilst you stride along next to him and reply, “As a matter of fact, we did… How about you?”

“Oh, it was about as interesting as most conversations I’ve ever had with a maker. That is to say, not interesting at  _all_ , and focused predominantly on directions….”

Just as you reach the top step, Alya suddenly calls out behind you. “Oh, horseman, one more thing before you go….”

You and Death share a glance and swivel around, watching curiously as she digs through her apron pocket in search of something. “Now, where did I…Ah! Here it is!” Triumphantly, she retrieves her hand and shows you what she’s holding.

It’s a pistol. The largest pistol you’ve ever seen – with a single barrel that gleams like polished silver in the morning light. You can’t help but to stare, transfixed as Alya spins the cylinder and checks the sight before handing it down to the waiting horseman.

“I know this pistol,” he mutters, reaching up and taking the proffered weapon, “It belonged to my brother, Strife. How came it here?”

But in reply, Alya merely shrugs her massive shoulders, lips pursed. “I cannot say. But it’ll help you on your journey, of that I’m sure. Oh, and you’ll probably be needin’ this as well.” She turns to whistle at Valus and he huffs, trundling over to the workbench and grabbing a small, leather holster before turning to throw it at his sister. Expertly, she catches it and hands it down to the horseman.

For a while, Death simply holds the two new items, staring at them suspiciously until he swivels his eyes up towards Alya again. “And am I right in assuming you expect compensation for the holster?” 

The maker’s nostril’s flare with a rough exhalation and she fixes her thumbs through a couple of belt loops, declaring, “S’like I said before; Help us, and  _we’ll_  help you. Consider it a thank you present, for fixin’ the Cauldron. There’s more where that came from if you can get the DrenchFort up and runnin’ too.” 

You couldn’t be too certain whether the horseman had needed the extra motivation or not, but he nonetheless dips his head in a shallow nod and turns to catch your eye. “Well, in that case…Shall we get a move on?” 

 —

There’s an unacknowledged tension laying thick in the air as you wander through the village at Death’s side, every now and again making quick, sidelong glances at him until he softly and unexpectedly exhales.

“Did you get  _any_  sleep?”

It’s so out of the blue and yet so banal that for a few moments, you have no idea  how to respond.

Eventually, you resolve to tell him a little, white lie. “Y-yeah, I slept fine, thanks..”

Even as the words leave your mouth, you just  _know_  he’s picked up on your hesitation by the dubious look he aims at the side of your head. Terrified that he’ll call you out on the fib and you’ll be forced to admit that you blubbed like a baby all night, you stubbornly avoid his gaze, focusing instead on the trio of makers up ahead until you eventually feel the horseman’s eyes move away and you can breath properly again.

Eideard is standing at the edge of the arena, quietly observing a sparring match between Karn and Thane. The younger of the two has a white-knuckle grip on the handle of his hammer as he attempts to block each increasingly vicious swing from the warrior’s axe. 

“Hey, Eideard,” you chirrup, coming to a stop beside the elder’s boot and breathing a mental sigh of relief, glad for the distraction.

Blinking, the enormous maker swings his head down to offer you a warm smile. “Ah, good morning, Y/n.”

“ _Y/n_!?” In the arena, Karn balks at the sound of your name, taking his eyes off Thane to glance over a shoulder, eyes darting left and right until they settle on you and a look of horror dawns across his face, ears pinned back to the sides of his head. He hadn’t anticipated that  _you_  might appear to watch him train. Unfortunately, the distraction leaves him completely open to a swing from Thane’s axe. Drawing back a couple of steps, the experienced warrior expertly sweeps his weapon towards Karn’s side, then drops it at the last second and twists it in his grip so that the blunt edge hits the youngling’s legs instead, knocking them out from underneath him.

Giving off a startled yelp, Karn comes crashing down and the resulting impact of several tonnes of maker hitting the ground threatens to send you off your feet as well. You clap a hand over your mouth and bite down on a burst of laughter as the young maker flounders on his back for a while like an upturned tortoise before scrambling to sit up, his cheeks swiftly turning a dark shade of pink.

“I-I meant to do that!” he stammers, avoiding your eye and wishing profusely for the ground to open up and swallow him whole. “Gotta give the old ones a chance every now’n then, eh?”

Scowling, Thane lumbers over and raps his knuckle sharply on top of Karn’s head, huffing, “Oi. Watch who you’re callin’ old,  _Pup_.”

“Ha -  _Ahem_  - Are you okay, Karn?” you laugh, while Thane snags the young maker’s shoulder pauldron and hoists him up onto his feet again.

Still reeling from utter embarrassment, he shrugs off the warrior’s hand and casts you a shy glance, mumbling, “Aye, m’alright…”

Death brushes past you and Eideard, moving into the arena with his hands splayed accusingly on his bony hips. “Is that all it takes to distract you, Karn? The presence of a human?”

“Wha- I-  _No_!” the youngling protests, his bottom lip pursed stubbornly.

“Ah,” Death continues, “Just the presence of  _Y/n_ , then.”

Throwing his head back, a bark of laughter bursts out of Thane and he elbows Karn roughly in his side, eyebrows raised suggestively. 

Apparently, the youngling’s face  _can_  flush even darker. 

Meanwhile, still lingering back at the arena’s edge, you’re content and slightly amused to watch Karn try to awkwardly defend himself for a time, sputtering out various excuses for his unintentional slip-up until a shadow falls over you and upon glancing up, you find that Eideard has shifted closer, leaning on his staff for support. “Y/n,” he says, keeping his voice low enough so that only you can hear it over the others’ bickering, “I wonder if I might have a word?”

In spite of his decidedly secretive tone, you’re happy to oblige the old maker in a little conversation, replying “Sure,” before following him over to a low wall that faces the western mountain range.

Once out of earshot of the other three, he stops beside it, setting his hands down on the ageing stone and casting his eyes towards the far off mountains whose peaks have only just been touched by the morning sun. You’ve barely approached the wall yourself when he shifts slightly, inhaling through his nose and exhaling again – as resigned a sigh as you’ve ever heard. “You look tired, Y/n,” he murmurs. 

And perhaps, because he hadn’t asked it as a question - because he seems too wise to be fooled, you don’t feel the need to deny it. Before you can think to stop yourself, you close your eyes and lean sideways into the maker’s leg, softly admitting, “Yeah, I didn’t get a lot of sleep.”

If Eideard minds your proximity, he doesn’t comment on it.

“And do you plan on accompanying Death?”

“Mm hmm.”

A long pause, then - “Are you certain that’s wise?”

Suppressing a moan, you drag your head away from the soft fur lining of his boot and stand up straight again, gazing sadly over the wall. “Probably not.”

The maker’s head twists around, his pale eyes regarding you with renewed curiosity. “And yet, still you wish to go?”

“Look. The only place I wish to  _go_  is home,” you grumble bitterly, though when one of the elder’s eyebrows lifts in mild surprise, you regret letting the moment of irritability slip out. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to sound rude. I’m just-”

“- tired?” he guesses.

“…Yeah. Something like that.” 

“I don’t mean to pry,” Eideard continues slowly, “I only ask because I worry.”  

Biting your lip, you card a hand roughly through your hair. On top of everything else he has to be concerned with such as Corruption taking the last of his people and destroying his home, he’s worried about  _you_. And here you are getting snippy with him. It isn’t the Old one’s fault you’re stuck here, and after all he’s done for you, the very least you can offer him is an answer to his questions. “Okay, the truth is, I want to go with Death because it’s better than the alternative.”

“Staying here?” To your dismay, Eideard’s tone holds the barest modicum of hurt.

“No,” you hurriedly assure him, “Staying  _still_. I just don’t want to be…alone with my thoughts, you know? Last night was awful! I kept going back to that church and those people and my  _family_  and I-I don’t want to give myself time to think about…” A potent shudder cuts you off, but you’re fairly certain he gets the gist since his chest deflates under the weight of a silent exhale and he bows his head, offering you a sign that he not only understands but that you don’t need to say any more. 

Giving yourself a quick shake, you clear your throat and blink some moisture from your eyes, desperate to alleviate the sullen atmosphere that’s grown between you. “I uh, I did at least manage to get a couple hours of sleep in though, thanks to you.”

Hearing him shift his weight, you spare a quick glance up at the maker and realise he’s giving you a puzzled look, head tilted to one side. “Thanks…to me?” he asks, a moment later admitting, “I must confess, I’m not sure as to what you’re referring.”

You turn to face him properly, brows furrowing in a similar fashion to his. “Last night. I-In the forge?” His face remains relatively blank, and you suddenly question whether you’d been mistaken in assuming it had been Eideard. “You…You moved me from the door to the anvil? I would have a really cricked neck this morning if I’d’ve stayed where I was.”

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken, little one. Whilst I am glad you slept more comfortably, it was not  _I_  who moved you.”

“Oh….Well, maybe it was one of the other makers?”

Just then, something changes in the old one’s expression, like he’d just come to a realisation you have yet to reach. The crease between his eyebrows suddenly disappears and he blinks, lips parting slightly. “Or perhaps-” he muses, tapping a gnarled fingertip against his staff, “-it was not a maker at all.”

Confusion sweeps across your face, chasing away the meek tilt of your eyebrows. “Not a maker? Well, who  _else_  could it have been?”

“What are you two talking about over there?”

Giving a start, you spin around to find Death is no longer engaged in conversation with Thane and Karn, and is instead glaring from across the arena, eyes hard and unblinking.

You fall prey to a knee-jerk response, standing stiff as a board and blurting out, “Nothing!” as though you’d just been caught with your hand in the proverbial cookie jar although you don’t know what exactly it is you’ve done wrong..

A soft harrumph comes from the horseman and he squints suspiciously up at the Elder, but after a second, he returns his attention to you and jerks his head towards the stairs. “Well, if you’re finished, it’s high time we were off.”

“Right-o!” Without arguing, you scurry back towards his side but pause as Eideard promptly calls your name.

“Y/n?” 

Hesitant, you turn to blink up at him over your shoulder. “Y-yeah?” 

The maker holds you under a somber, weighty frown and you swallow, wondering for a fleeting moment if he’s about to insist that you stay in the village. However, another second passes and his expression melts, losing its austerity. “You will be alright,” he tells you with so much conviction, a tiny piece of doubt breaks away from your soul and falls into nonexistence. 

Conveying gratefulness in a decisive nod, you turn and trot up to Death, taking a second to shoot a sympathetic smile at Karn, who looks appropriately shellshocked for having received a thorough teasing from both the warrior  _and_  the horseman.

“You’re headin’ out again?” Thane’s steely eyes flick over to meet Eideard’s, a silent message conveyed in that briefest of glances, before they return to you and he continues, “Don’t suppose you’d fancy stayin’ here to help me train this young’un?”

Although Karn perks up in an instant, apparently delighted at the suggestion, you politely shake your head. “Tempting, but I’m gonna have to take a rain check. Death might need my help in the Drenchfort.”

“Oh, undoubtedly,” the horseman agrees, nodding sagely, “Her innate ability to trigger shadow bombs is  _bound_  to come in handy at some stage.”

A contemptuous smirk tugs at his lips when you stick your tongue out at him.

Meanwhile, Karn’s shoulders slump dejectedly but he remains silent, hiding his disappointment as Death leads you towards the curved staircase, the two older makers immediately taking notice of your unsteady gait. Thane lets out a troubled hum and shoots another pointed look at the elder, who sports his own frown but raises a hand, quietly telling his fellow maker to leave the matter alone. They’re just going to have to trust your judgement….

 _And_  the horseman’s.

“Take care,” Eideard calls. He waits until you call a hasty farewell and disappear from view before he softly adds, “ _Both_  of you.”

—

“Oh Jesus, I forgot about that thing…”

Below you, Despair blows out a congruent snort, head turning to keep the gigantic swell of corruption in his sights as he trots briskly across the valley, his hooves kicking up a light sprinkling of dew as he goes. There’s a thin mist covering the ground that swirls around the horse’s legs and lends itself to the realm’s mysterious vibe.

“Fear not,” Death pipes up at your back, “There are far worse things you need to worry about in the nearer future.”

At his words, your expression darkens. “…I love how you preceded that with ‘ _fear not_.’ Like it’s supposed to make me feel better.”

You don’t hear him laugh but the horseman’s chest shudders behind you, rumbling against your back and your odd trio presses on.

Soon enough, an enormous cliff rises up before you. A gorge – much like the one on the eastern side of the vale – has been blocked off by a towering wall of thick, oozing corruption. Upon reaching the black mass, Death tugs lightly on Despair’s reins and the horse slows to a halt, the three of you peering up at it with the same expression you might give a particularly difficult crossword clue.

“Well…. Now what?” you ask.

The horseman remains silent for a moment, frowning up at Dust who lets out a smug caw and merely soars over the wall. “Short of sprouting  _wings_ ,” he muses, “It looks impassable.”

Craning your neck back to look up at him, you find Death’s eyes narrowed and focused, puzzling over the obstacle with a brain that moves at a million miles an hour. Turning back to the corruption, you follow his lead, scanning its surface.

All of a sudden, you spot something.

Scattered here and there, almost lost among the sticky strands, are dozens of shadow bombs, though these are lacking the same, putrid glow that belonged those in the Cauldron.

“Hey.” You point up at the wall, getting Death’s attention. “Are those the same bomb things we saw back in the Cauldron?”

“Shadow bombs?” he clarifies, following the line of your finger and blinking in surprise as he spots them, incredulous that a human had managed to find them before  _him_  amid the tendrils.

Incredulous - and mildly impressed.

“Hmm. Well spotted.”

You blink, scratching the back of your hand. “Oh, I-…Thank you.”

“They don’t look primed…” he continues thoughtfully, tapping his fingers against Despair’s shoulder.

Tipping your head back, you echo, “Primed?”

“Active. Ready to detonate. They won’t explode without an ignition.”

“Oh..” Pursing your lips, you face the bombs again and frown at them. “So…We need a match?”

“Or a bullet.”

Behind you, the horseman shifts, reaching into his holster and retrieving his brother’s pistol. Before you know it, he’s stretched his arm around to hold it in front of your face. “Here,” he says, promptly dropping it so that you fumble awkwardly to catch it.

“Hey, what? Why’re you giving  _me_  this!?” you squeak, arms buckling under the pistol’s unexpected weight.

“Target practice.”

“T-target practice!?”

Death rumbles amusedly, sliding his hands underneath your wrists and lifting them up to be level with your shoulders. “This valley must have an echo.”

“Just wanted to make sure I wasn’t going deaf!”

“What’s the problem? You shot well on Earth.”

“Uh,  _yeah_! With a gun that’s like….eight times smaller than this one!” Your fingers tremble slightly as he moves his hands to cover your own and gently slides them down the gun until they’re wrapped firmly around its grip.

“The kickback will be a shock,” he murmurs into your ear, lining up the sights with the nearest bomb and missing the goosebumps that trail up and down your skin, “But if we’re in a pinch and I’m preoccupied….Well, I don’t think a little shooting practice will hurt.”

“It’ll hurt my  _arms_ ,” you grumble.

The horseman’s hands leave yours and draw away, instead coming to rest on your shoulders, steadying you. “A little pain won’t kill you. Now…When you’re ready, take a breath-“

Feeling oddly secure under the weight of his fingers, you suck down a lungful of air and release it, blowing it past your lips.

“-And squeeze the trigger.”

‘ _ **BANG**_!’

The shot rings out across the valley as the bullet explodes from its chamber, thwacking against a spot just to the left of the shadow bomb. If it weren’t for Death holding your arms still, you’re fairly certain you’d have smacked yourself in the face.

“ _Ow_! Shit!”

“Good,” he rumbles, giving your shoulder a solid pat. “That was good.”

Bewildered, you swivel your head around to squint up at him. “Uh, I’m sorry.  _How_  was that good? I missed!”

“This is not an easy weapon to handle.” Patiently turning you back towards your target, he adds, “For a first shot, that wasn’t bad. Try again, same as before.”

A compliment. A genuine compliment from the grim reaper. You have to resist the urge to pinch yourself, instead taking up a firing position and pulling in another deep breath.

‘ _ **BANG**_!’

Another shot splits the air and again, the bullet embeds itself into the corrupted mess, this time just above the shadow bomb.

“And again.”

Frustrated, you drop your arms, knocking the gun against Despair’s saddle horn. “Can’t  _you_  just do it?” you whine, “I’m…. I’m wasting ammo!”

“Supernatural rounds,” the horseman responds simply, “A gun that never runs out of bullets.”

Mouth dropping open, you twist the gun around in your grip and stare at it. “What, seriously?”

“Seriously. Now-“ Letting go of your shoulders, Death sits back in the saddle. “-Again, without me holding you this time.”

The absence of his chilly hands is unsettling. “But what if I miss again?”

“Then you miss, and you continue to try. But think of it this way instead…” Bending down, he brings his head next to yours, his ebony hair tickling against your ear. “What if you hit it?”

You get the distinct impression that he’s not going to let you get away with backing out this one, so, breathing in through your nose, you hold your breath, squinting up at the shadow bomb and try to force yourself to stop doubting that you can hit it. You’d shot a charging demon right between the eyes. Could it have really just been nothing more than a stroke of luck?

Forgetting the kickback, forgetting that the bang is going to make you jump, forgetting the horseman behind you and his steed beneath, you slide your finger around the trigger, expel the air from your lungs and squeeze.

Any sound of a fired gun is drowned out mere seconds later when the entire wall of corruption suddenly erupts outwards with a clamour loud enough to be heard all the way back in Tri Stone.

Despair throws his head back, whinnying triumphantly as the obstacle dissolves away to nothing, burned up by the head of the explosion until there’s nothing left, and you find yourselves looking down a dark, craggy passageway.

All of a sudden, Death’s hand claps down on your shoulder, jostling you out of a state of awed shock. “Fancy that,” he exclaims, clicking his tongue and moving Despair into a steady walk, “You didn’t miss.”

“Yeah, yeah. I get it. If at first you don’t succeed blah blah,” you mumble, pressing your lips into a line to hide your smile and passing the horseman’s gun back to him.

The ride through the gorge is a long and arduous one, filled with giant, flying insects that zoom around your head and try to get their stingers into your delicate skin, although the horseman never let them get close enough to accomplish that.

He’d obviously been telling the truth about the unlimited ammunition because he fires round after endless round into the bugs until they start dropping from the air like gigantic, murderous flies.

All in all, the journey seems to be going fairly well, at least until Despair gallops out of the gorge and you come upon a wide, open plain that’s positively crawling with demons.

Death is aware of the change in you immediately, feeling your back press into his chest as you give a violent shudder.

“Scared?” he asks.

Gulping down a ball of terror, you admit, “I-I thought there’d just be more constructs.”

“I’m sorry to say there’ll be a lot more demons than this on our journey,” he replies, “That is, considering you continue to accompany me.”

Behind the fear, you notice something in his tone, something that leads you to believe this is another one of his tests.   
Go forward or turn back.

Unfortunately, the sight of demons throws you violently to the day your world ended. Flashes of snapping jaws and rending claws burst sporadically in your mind’s eye and you have to admit, the temptation to flee is unignorably tantalising. Suddenly, the air feels thick and heavy and every breath is more difficult to get down into your lungs. These are the things that destroyed your world.

Pulse racing, you close your eyes and try to stop yourself from remembering.

People, fire, demons. Screaming, burning, roaring.

A distant voice calls your name, but a pit has opened up in your stomach, threatening to swallow you whole. Still, you feel compelled to answer the voice. It sounds worried. “Y-yeah, I’m alright,” you choke, struggling to get the words out passed a closed-up throat. Slowly, the world tilts inexplicably to the left and you hear a shrill whinny that fades into silence as your world turns dark.

—

Light bleeds back into your vision like watercolour dropped onto mottled parchment and you gasp, eyes flying open. Your hands find soft grass and you push yourself upright with a groan, staring down at your boots.

“What…what happened?” you whisper, recognising the cold presence of Death lingering close to your side.

“You fainted.”

Dragging your head up, you’re finally able to look at the horseman.   
Even with the mask, you can tell he isn’t happy. “How long was I out?”

“Not long,” he murmurs, propping a hand behind your back, “A minute or so? Long enough for me to ride over here and put you down.”

Indeed, upon taking in your surroundings, you find you’re now laying on a grassy outcrop set against the cliff face and overlooking the rest of the gorge. Across the way, you can see the large portcullis you’d come through.

“Oh man.” Grimacing, you scrub tiredly at your face before glancing back over to the horseman. “I’m sorry, Death. I didn’t mean to.”

A twinge of concern dribbles into his voice, so discreet, you’re sure you’re just imagining things. “I know you didn’t.”

Shyly, you try for a laugh. “I’d, uh…I’d say this never usually happens, but I think that’s the  _third_  time I’ve passed out on you since we met?”

“The second time you collapsed out of exhaustion, that doesn’t count,” he snorts, “Technically, you’ve only fainted twice.”

Somehow, that doesn’t make you feel any less pathetic.

“I’m sorry,” you apologise again, waving him off when he takes you under the arm and tries to lift you back onto your feet, “It won’t happen again, I promi-“

A loud rustle suddenly comes from your left, followed by a thud and in a flurry of motion that almost leaves you sprawled on the ground once more, Death shoves past you, drawing his scythes and placing himself between you and the sound.

Peering around the horseman’s twitching shoulder, you gasp.

Something  _big_  has extracted itself from what had once looked to be nothing more than an unassuming pile of rocks and tangle of tree roots, and only in moving has it revealed itself.   
To begin with, you’re convinced it’s another corrupted construct, but then, a large, round stone in the place of a head splits across the middle, showing off a wide mouth, out of which hums a long yawn. As you watch, transfixed, a pair of small, yellow eyes blink open in the surface of the rock and swivel over to Death, blinking again when they land on him.

The horseman’s fists clench tightly around his scythes, prepared to attack.

However, to the surprise of you both, the living construct lifts the lower half of its face into a bizarre rendition of a smile. “Hello fleshlings,” it rumbles.

Briefly, Death turns to share a bewildered look with you, both of you looking for some kind of answer in the other or at least a prompt of how best to respond. Eventually, you can only shrug half-heartedly, so the horseman faces the construct once again, eyes squinted suspiciously as he demands, “Who – or rather -  _what_  are you?a?”

It seems…. different from the other constructs you’ve come across, not least because this is the first one that’s spoken to you. More curious than wary now, you take a tentative step around Death, your eyes roving up and down the strange being.

“I am Blackroot,” it says, flicking its eyes over to you, “And I…am hungry.”

The horseman starts to usher you back again, asking warily, “For  _what_ , exactly?” He’s fairly certain constructs don’t eat, and they definitely don’t eat humans. None that he’s heard of, anyway. That isn’t to say he’ll take his chances with this one.

Meanwhile, you’re busy having a similar thought process, horrified that it might have a taste for flesh.

But the construct – Blackroot – eagerly turns its attention back onto Death, blurting out, “Why, only the finest stones!” You and the horseman deflate at the same time. “Once, I would have gone to find them for myself, but as you can see, I am not quite as free as I once was.”

“Wait, you can’t move?” Inquisitive now that it’s confirmed it  _won’t_  be dining on human today, you venture forwards, only halted when Death’s fingers snag on your sleeve. It’s apparent he doesn’t’ fully know what to make of Blackroot just yet, and isn’t quite as willing as you are to trust it.

But whether or not it notices the horseman’s action, Blackroot doesn’t remark on it. Sadly, it shakes its head and taps the ends of its stony fingers together, somehow managing to give off the air of an anxious child. “No, I am afraid I cannot, tiny fleshling” it laments, “I must wait here for my master.

“You have a master?”

“Ah… Of him, I do not speak. Nor do I remember. He left eons ago, and now I am trapped here.” The construct indicates its feet and for the first time, you notice that, much like the roots of a tree, they’re woven into the soil, extending down through the earth. You glance back up and meet his imploring stare whilst he adds, “I will starve if someone doesn’t help me.”

“That’s…so sad,” you frown softly, stepping out of the horseman’s grasp and turning to face him, “Isn’t there something we can do to free him?”

Neither of them miss how you referred to Blackroot as ‘him,’ and not 'it.'   
Sympathy plays fleetingly across Death’s eyes but before he can admit that, no, there isn’t anything you can do, the construct replies for him. “It is alright. My roots are too deep, and if they are severed, I will shrivel up, and perish.”

“But that’s not fair,” you protest.

However, it simply shrugs, the grassy tufts sticking out of its shoulder rustling softly in the breeze. “It is neither fair, nor unfair. It simply is. In choosing to wait for my master’s return, I accepted that my roots would grow deep into the ground and I would be stuck, until he came to find me.”

“So…Your master…Could he free you?”

Blackroot’s head tilts to one side, pondering. “I…am not sure. I do not even remember who he was.” He lifts an arm to rub the top of his head, humming in thought and in doing so, suddenly reveals something that catches your eye, a little flash of red and white that stands out against his tattered rags.

“Wait, hold still.”

The construct freezes, eyes flashing in surprise as you duck under his elbow and reach out to touch the object hanging from his belt. Two small, black buttons stare up at you, stitched onto the face of a little doll – a doll wearing a golden headdress, a blue robe and most distinctive of all, a patch of felt has been lovingly sewn onto its chin to depict a long, white beard.

Delicately brushing your fingers over the doll, you whisper, “Eideard?”

“Eideard?” Death repeats, striding over, “What of him?”

Carefully, you pull the tiny Eideard-esque maker off the construct’s belt and hold it up so the two of them can see. “Blackroot, is this your master? Eideard? Do you remember Eideard?”

When he doesn’t respond, you grasp one of his fingers and lift it from his side, dropping the doll into his open palm. For a moment, he only blinks at the doll, rocky brows knitting together into a frown. Then, gently, he raises his free hand and strokes a bulky forefinger down the miniature body. “My….master?” he croaks, curling his fingers over the doll before looking up at you, wide-eyed and confused. “I-I do not recall. Perhaps.”

“You’ll have to ask the man himself,” Death mutters, “In the meantime, you and I shall have to keep an eye out for these…’stone bites.’”

“Right.” Nodding, you reach out to pat Blackroot’s mossy forearm. “Don’t want you starving to death.”

The construct balks, tearing his eyes off the doll in his hand to stare down at you, suddenly registering what you’d said. “Ah, then…you will do me this kindness?”

“Yeah, of course! We’re not monsters,” you laugh, following Death over towards his steed, who’s been waiting patiently at the edge of the outcrop all this time, ears flicking back and forth as he follows the sound of voices.

The horseman jumps on first, pulling you into the saddle shortly afterwards, only this time, he sits you behind him and instructs you to hold on. Once situated, you twist about to throw a quick wave over your shoulder at the construct, shouting, “We’ll see you soon, okay?”

As Death spurs his horse into a trot and sets off in the direction of the Drenchfort, Blackroot lifts a hand, waving it enthusiastically through the air and calling out a gravelly farewell before he redirects his gaze onto the doll in his hand.

—-

“So, you never did tell me,” Death remarks a minute later as he pulls Despair to a stop facing the portcullis you’d passed through.

Curious, you peer around the horseman’s side to get a better look at his face, cocking an eyebrow and asking, “Tell you what?”

One of those brilliant, yellow eyes swivels around to regard you from its corner. “If you still plan on accompanying me.”

It’s at that moment you understand the reason why he’s pointed his horse back the way you came.

Without actually saying it, Death is offering you a way out.

Ahead is Tri Stone - probably the safest place in the realm for a lone human, surrounded by six, watchful giants and high, stone walls. You wouldn’t have to charge through hordes of demons and see the whites of their beady, little eyes as they bore down on you. You could be safe and warm and comfortable, wrapped up in furs and listening to Karn as he tries too hard to make you laugh. 

Or…

You could go with Death, ride into another temple of unknown dangers and face the same monsters you’d seen tearing through the streets of your home. All this whilst fighting back the rising tide of anxiety that even  _now_  threatens to overwhelm and pull you under.

“I don’t know,” you whisper truthfully, kneading your fingers into the threadbare ends of his cowl, “I-I  _don’t_  know what to do. Ugh! I thought I’d be brave enough to  _handle_  this!”  

To your surprise, a large, cold hand suddenly rests itself over your knee. Stunned into momentary silence, you snap your gaze down to see that Death has twisted slightly in his saddle to offer you what small comfort he can give. It isn’t much in the grand scheme of things, he doesn’t even say a word, yet somehow that small gesture is just enough to bring your heart rate back down to a less thunderous beat. Eventually, your breathing slows to match it.

The funny thing is though; you hadn’t even noticed when either had gotten so fast.

Only once he sees that you’ve calmed down considerably, Death bends his head around a little further. “Don’t tell me you’re more afraid of demons than you are of constructs?” 

Your only response is to turn your face away from him and stare at the ground with a sense of shame you really don’t think you ought to possess. After all, what human in their right mind  _wouldn’t_  be afraid in a valley chock-full of demons? 

“If it makes you feel any better,” the horseman continues, “demons are  _far_  easier to kill.” He moves a hand to his belt and before you can stop him, he’s pushed his brother’s pistol between your vastly smaller fingers, explaining, “And you’ll find this is a Hell of a lot more effective on flesh than stone.”   
You try to protest, shaking your head and attempting to shove the gun back towards him but he’s already twisting forwards so you’re once again staring up at his broad, sinewy back - The same back you’d stared up at when he threw himself between you and Blackroot…. And again during the altercation with Gharn.

In fact, it abruptly occurs to you that there’ve been quite a few instances where Death has placed himself directly in the way of a threat, or a blow meant for you. As soon as this realisation hits, a strange thought drapes itself over your mind, subtle yet insistent. 

You  _trust_  Death. 

“So, what will it be, human?”

The weight of his pistol feels so much heavier in your palms than the handgun stuffed into the back of your tights and it’s metal is strangely warm, despite having been handed to you by a bloodless being.

“I can take you back to Tri-Stone-”

Slowly, your fingers close around the grip.

“-Or you can come with me and we’ll enact a bit of good, old-fashioned payback on some demons in the name of Earth. How does that sound?”

At this point, he doesn’t even  _need_  to play the revenge angle, your mind having already been made up.

“Okay,” you whisper, and as you do, the tiniest glimmer of excitement ignites in your belly, “I’ll go with you. I trust you.” 

The silence that follows your statement betrays no indication that he’s either surprised nor that he’d been expecting such an answer. Several beats pass in which you continue to peek apprehensively at his protruding spine, unable to see the startled, marginally overwhelmed eyes staring straight ahead from beneath the horseman’s mask. And then, in a single blink, his expression falls back to its regular glower. “Very well,” he responds airily, and you’re glad that he doesn’t sound displeased by your decision.

With a click of his tongue, he whirls Despair about and suddenly, you’re facing down the grassy path of the fjord and the demons that prowl along it.

Gulping, you shakily chuckle, “I – um…I feel like should probably make a joke about  _facing my demons_  or something.”

“You  _could_ ,” the horseman in front of you snorts softly, “But that would be a little obvious, don’t you think?”

An impatient squeal draws your attention to the huffing steed under you, and Death leans forward to pat his rotting neck. “Are you ready?” he asks, and it takes you a moment to realise he’s expecting an answer from  _you_ , not the horse. 

“Nope.”

“Excellent. Now, you’re going to want to hold on tight if you’re planning to shoot anything. Wouldn’t want the recoil to knock you out of the saddle.” Metal stirrups creaks as Death leans forward, taking up the rusted, chainlink reins in one hand and moving the other towards a scythe hanging from his hip. Just as his fingers brush the leather-bound handle, he pauses, head twitching sideways to offer a brief afterthought. “Oh, and if you feel as though you’re about to faint on me again, I’d appreciate at least a few seconds of warning. If that’s not  _too_  much trouble.” 

“Hmph!” Giving his hip a hard but playful shove, you nonetheless follow his initial instruction and slide an arm hesitantly around his sturdy waist as your dominant hand grasps ever more tightly to the gun which seems to tremble expectantly against your skin; a tremble that you can’t accredit to mere nerves. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say the odd weapon is excited for the bloodshed to come. 

Despair paws at the ground and Death draws his scythe, giving it a twirl you suspect is more for show than anything else and then, bellowing out a shrill scream, the spectral steed kicks off his hind legs and lurches from a quivering standstill to a breakneck gallop, all in the space of a second flat. Instantly, the arm you have wrapped around Death’s torso tenses and your hand frantically scrabbles for purchase, managing to snag his large, silver belt buckle which you latch onto for dear life.  

Cheek squashed against his back, you can feel the horseman’s chuckle vibrate through his body but the sound of it is lost to the wind screaming past your ears and the pounding of hooves beneath you as Despair flies like a ghostly bullet train along the fjord. 

As you hurtle along, all you can hope is that you at least make it to the Drenchfort without falling off. 


End file.
